0  >J 


\. • 


C  I/  Ju" 


EDKfiAIIOH  LIBB. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

Education 
GIFT  OF 


Louise  Farrow  Barr 


"CARROTS" 

JUST    A    LITTLE    BOY 

AND 

A    CHRISTMAS    CHILD 


LIBRARY 

"CARROTS" 

JUST    A    LITTLE    BOY 


AND 


A    CHRISTMAS    CHILD 


BY 

MRS.    MOLESWORTH 

AUTHOR  OP   "CUCKOO  CLOCK,""   "  GRANDSI OTHER   DEAR,"   "A  CHRISTMAS 
POST,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  WALTER   CRANE 


Nefo  gotfe 
MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

AND  LONDON 

1893 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 
BY  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


New  uniform  edition  set  up  and  electrotyped  October,  1893. 

Education 
GIFT 


Norfoooti 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


63 


CONTENTS. 

"CARROTS." 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

FLOSS'S  BABY     .......  .1 


CHAPTER  II. 
Six  YEARS  OLD  .........        9 

CHAPTER  III. 
PLANS  ......       .....      19 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  LOST  HALF-SOVEREIGN     ......      32 

CHAPTER  V. 
CARROTS  IN  TROUBLE        .......      43 

CHAPTER  VI. 

CARROTS  "ALL  ZIGHT  "  AGAIN  55 

v 

32S 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

PAGE 

A  LONG  AGO  STORY 64 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
"THE  BEWITCHED  TONGUE"     ......      78 

CHAPTER  IX. 
SYBIL 91 

CHAPTER  X. 
A  JOURNEY  AND  ITS  ENDING    ......    106 

CHAPTER  XI. 
HAPPY  AND  SAD 126 

CHAPTER  XII. 
"  THE  Two  FUNNY  LITTLE  TROTS  "        .        .        .        .142 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
GOOD  ENDINGS    .        .  163 


CONTENTS. 

A  CHRISTMAS  CHILD 

CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

BABY  TED  .........  * 

CHAPTER  II. 
IN  THE  GARDEN         ........      17 

CHAPTER  III. 
WISHES  AND  FEARS  ........      35 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  STORY  OF  SUNNY       .        .        .  •        •        .54 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  STORY  OF  SUNNY  —  Concluded  .....      70 

CHAPTER  VI. 
LITTLE  NARCISSA       ........      86 


vii 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

PAGE 

GETTING  BIG      .....'  106 


CHAPTER   VIII. 
"STATISTICS" .        .    124 

CHAPTER  IX. 
A  PEACOCK'S  FEATHER  AND  A  Kiss        .       ,       .        .145 

CHAPTER  X. 
SOME  RAINY  ADVENTURES        .        .       .       .       .        .161 

CHAPTER  XI. 
"!T'S  ONLY  I,  MOTHER"  .        .        .        .        .        .        „    179 

CHAPTER  XH. 
THE  WHITE  CROSS    .        .  193 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 
"CARROTS." 

THERE  SHE  SAT,  AS  STILL  AS  A  MOUSE,  HOLD- 
ING HER  PRECIOUS  BURDEN       .         .         .        Frontispiece 

"A  YELLOW  SIXPENNY,  OH,  HOW  NICE!"        To  face  page  26 

FLOSS    TAPPED     AT     THE     DOOR.        "  CARROTS," 

SHE    SAID,    "  ARE    YOU   THERE  ?  "  .  .  .  u  55 

"  NOW,    BE   QUIET   ALL   OF  YOU,   I'M    GOING    TO 

BEGIN"  .  "  80 

"  WHAT  ARE  YOU  THINKING  ABOUT,  MY  POOR 

OLD  MAN?"  SAID  AUNTIE,  FONDLY  .        .  "        103 

"  IT  is  FLOSSIE  AND  ME,  SYBIL  —  DON'T  YOU 

REMEMBER  US?". "        127 

"  SUDDENLY  A  BRIGHT  THOUGHT  STRUCK  ME, 
I  SEIZED  GIP,  MY  LITTLE  DOG,  WHO  WAS 

ASLEEP    ON    THE    HEARTH-RUG,    AND    HELD 

HIM    UP   AT    THE    WlNDOW  "...  "  146 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 
A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

"  THE  STORY  OF  SUNNY  " Frontispiece 

"  I  WISH  THOO'D  LET  ME  HELP  THOO  TO  CUT 

THE  GRASS" To  face  page  30 

"SHE  HUNTED  ABOUT  AMONG  THE  LEAVES 
AND  BRANCHES  TILL  SHE  FOUND  A  LITTLE 
SILVER  KNOB  "  . 76 

"BABY   SHOWED,    OR    TED    THOUGHT  SHE   DID, 

A  QUITE  EXTRAORDINARY  LOVE  FOR  THE 
BOUQUETS  HER  LITTLE  BROTHER  AR- 
RANGED FOR  HER" "  89 

"  OH  DEAR,  OH  DEAR  !  "  CRIES  BEAUTY, 
JUMPING  UP  IN  A  FRIGHT,  "  HE'S  COMING 

TO   EAT   ME  " "  121 

"  THEY  WERE  NEATLY  TACKED  ON  TO  THE 
FEATHER  CARD,  WHICH  HAD  A  VERY 
FINE  EFFECT  ON  THE  WALL  OF  THE 
MUSEUM" "153 

"MASTER  TED,  VERY  WET  INDEED,  MADE 
HIS  APPEARANCE  WITH  ROSY  CHEEKS 
AND  A  GENERAL  LOOK  OF  SELF-SATIS- 
FACTION "  "  174 


THERE  SHE  BAT,  AS  STILL  AS  A  MOUSE,  HOLDING  HER  PRECIOUS 
BURDEN.  —  p.  6. 

—  Frontispiece. 


"CARROTS" 

JUST    A    LITTLE    BOY 


BY 


MRS.  MOLESWORTH 

(ENNIS  GRAHAM) 

AUTHOR  OF  "  CUCKOO  CLOCK,"  "  GRANDMOTHER  DEAR,"  "  TELL  ME  A  STORY, 
ETC.,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  WALTER   CRANE 


gork 
MACMILLAK    AND    CO. 

AND     LONDON 
1893 


All  rights  reserved 


First  Edition  printed  October,  1876.  Reprinted  December  (twice),  1876; 
January,  March,  and  August,  1877;  January  and  December,  1878;  May, 
1879;  March  and  October,  1880;  April  and  August,  1882;  1883,  1884,  1885, 
1886,  1887,  1889,  1891,  1892,  1893. 


TO 

&ix  SLtttle  Cou0m0 

MORIER,  NOEL,  BEVIL,  LIONEL,  EDWARD, 
AND  BABY  BRIAN 

EDINBURGH,  1870 


"Is  it  then  a  great  mistake 
That  Boys  were  ever  made  at  all? 


"  CARROTS  :r- 

JUST   A  LITTLE  BOY. 
CHAPTER  I. 

FLOSS'S   BABY. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from,  Baby  dear  ? 

Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here  ? 
*******        * 
"  But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear  ? 

God  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am  here  !  " 

G.  MACDONALD. 

His  real  name  was  Fabian.  But  he  was  never 
called  anything  but  Carrots.  There  were  six  of 
them.  Jack,  Cecil,  Louise,  Maurice,  commonly  called 
Mott,  Floss,  dear,  dear  Floss,  whom  he  loved  best  of 
all,  a  long  way  the  best  of  all,  and  lastly  Carrots. 

Why  Carrots  should  have  come  to  have  his  history 
written  I  really  cannot  say.  I  must  leave  you,  who 
understand  such  things  a  good  deal  better  than  I, 
you,  children,  for  whom  the  history  is  written,  to 
find  out.  I  can  give  you  a  few  reasons  why  Carrot's 
history  should  not  have  been  written,  but  that  is 
about  all  I  can  do,  There  was  nothing  very  remark- 

1 


able  about  him ;  there  was  nothing  very  remarkable 
about  the  place  where  he  lived,  or  the  things  that 
he  did,  and  on  the  whole  he  was  very  much  like 
other  little  boys.  There  are  my  no  reasons  for  you^ 
But  still  he  was  Carrots,  and  after  all,  perhaps,  that 
was  the  reason  !  I  shouldn't  wonder. 

He  was  the  baby  of  the  family ;  he  had  every  right 
to  be  considered  the  baby,  for  he  was  not  only  the 
youngest,  but  very  much  the  youngest ;  for  Floss, 
who  came  next  to  him,  was  nearly  four  years  older 
than  Carrots.  Yet  he  was  never  treated  as  the  baby. 
I  doubt  if  even  at  the  very  outset  of  his  little  life, 
when  he  was  just  a  wee  pink  ball  of  a  creature,  rolled 
up  in  flannel,  and  with  his  funny  curls  of  red  hair 
standing  crisp  up  all  over  his  head,  I  dbubt,  if  even 
then,  he  was  ever  called  "  baby."  I  feel  almost  sure 
it  was  always  "  Carrots."  He  was  too  independent 
and  sensible  to  be  counted  a  baby,  and  he  was  never 
fond  of  being  petted  —  and  then,  too,  "  Carrots  "  came 
so  naturally ! 

I  have  said  that  Carrots  loved  his  sister  Floss  bet- 
ter than  anybody  or  anything  else  in  the  world.  I 
think  one  reason  of  this  was  that  she  was  the  very 
first  person  he  could  remember  in  his  life,  and  a 
happy  thing  for  him  that  it  was  so,  for  all  about  her 
that  there  was  to  remember  was  nice  and  good  and 
kind.  She  was  four  years  older  than  he,  four  years 
old,  that  is  to  say,  when  he  first  came  into  the  world 
and  looked  about  him  with  grave  inquiry  as  to  what 


FLOSS'S  BABY.  3 

sort  of  a  place  this  could  be  that  he  had  got  to.  And 
the  first  object  that  his  baby-wise  eyes  settled  upon 
with  content,  as  if  in  it  there  might  be  a  possible 
answer  to  the  riddle,  was  Floss  ! 

These  children's  father  and  mother  were  not  very 
rich,  and  having  six  boys  and  girls  you  can  quite 
easily  imagine  they  had  plenty  to  do  with  their 
money.  Jack  was  a  great  boy  at  school  when  Car- 
rots first  joined  the  family  party,  and  Cecil  and 
Louise  had  a  governess.  Mott  learnt  with  the  gov- 
erness too,  but  was  always  talking  of  the  time  when 
he  should  go  to  school  with  Jack,  for  he  was  a  very 
boy-ey  boy,  very  much  inclined  to  look  down  upon 
girls  in  general,  and  his  sisters  in  particular,  and  his 
little  sister  Floss  in  particular 'est.  So,  till  Carrots 
appeared  on  the  scene,  Floss  had  had  rather  a  lonely 
time  of  it,  for,  "of  course,"  Cecil  and  Louise,  who 
had  pockets  in  all  their  frocks,  and  could  play  the 
"  March  of  the  Men  of  Harlech  "  as  a  duet  on  the 
piano,  were  far  too  big  to  be  "  friends  to  Floss,"  as 
she  called  it.  They  were  friendly  and  kind  in  an 
elder  sisterly  way,  but  that  was  quite  a  different  sort 
of  thing  from  being  "  friends  to  her,"  though  it  never 
occurred  to  Floss  to  grumble  or  to  think,  as  so  many 
little  people  think  now-a-days,  how  much  better 
things  would  have  been  arranged  if  she  had  had  the 
arranging  of  them. 

There  was  only  one  thing  Floss  wished  for  very, 
very  much,  and  that  was  to  have  a  brother  or  sister, 


4  "  CARROTS." 

she  did  not  much  care  which,  younger  than  herself. 
She  had  the  most  motherly  heart  in  the  world, 
though  she  was  such  a  quiet  little  girl  that  very 
few  people  knew  anything  about  what  she  was 
thinking,  and  the  big  ones  laughed  at  her  for  being 
so  outrageously  fond  of  dolls.  She  had  dolls  of  every 
kind  and  size,  only  alike  in  one  thing,  that  none  of 
them  were  very  pretty,  or  what  you  would  consider 
grand  dolls.  But  to  Floss  they  were  lovely,  only, 
they  were  only  dolls  ! 

Can  you  fancy,  can  you  in  the  least  fancy,  Floss's 
delight  —  a  sort  of  delight  that  made  her  feel  as 
if  she  couldn't  speak,  when  one  winter's  morning 
she  was  awakened  by  nurse  to  be  told  that  a  real  live 
baby  had  come  in  the  night  —  a  little  brother,  and 
"  such  a  funny  little  fellow,"  added  nurse,  "  his  head 
just  covered  with  curly  red  hair.  Where  did  he  get 
that  from,  I  wonder?  Not  one  of  my  children  has 
hair  like  that,  though  yours,  Miss  Flossie,  has  a  touch 
of  it,  perhaps." 

Floss  looked  at  her  own  tangle  of  fluffy  hair  with 
new  reverence.  "  Hair  somesing  like  my  hairs,"  she 
whispered;  "  Oh  nursie,  dear  nursie,  may  Floss  see 
him?" 

"  Get  up  and  let  me  dress  you  quickly,  and  you 
shall  see  him  —  no  fear  but  that  you'll  see  more  of 
the  poor  little  fellow  than  you  care  about,"  said 
nurse,  though  the  last  words  were  hardly  meant  for 
Floss. 


FLOSS'S  BABY.  5 

The  truth  was  that  though  of  course  every  one 
meant  to  be  kind  to  this  new  little  baby,  to  take 
proper  care  of  him,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  no  one 
was  particularly  glad  he  had  come.  His  father  and 
mother  felt  that  five  boys  and  girls  were  already  a 
good  number  to  bring  up  well  and  educate  and  start 
in  life,  not  being  very  rich  you  see,  and  even  nurse, 
who  had  the  very  kindest  heart  in  the  world,  and  had 
taken  care  of  them  all,  beginning  with  Jack,  ever 
since  they  were  born,  even  nurse  felt,  I  think,  that 
they  could  have  done  without  this  red-haired  little 
stranger.  For  nurse  was  no  longer  as  young  as  she 
had  been,  and  as  the  children's  mother  could  not,  she 
knew,  very  well  afford  to  keep  an  under-nurse  to 
help  her,  it  was  rather  trying  to  look  forward  to 
beginning  again  with  all  the  "  worrit "  of  a  new 
baby  —  bad  nights  and  many  tiring  climbs  up  the 
long  stairs  to  the  nursery,  etc.,  etc.,  though  nurse 
was  so  really  good  that  she  did  not  grumble  the  least 
bit,  and  just  quietly  made  up  her  mind  to  make  the 
best  of  it. 

But  still  Floss  was  the  only  person  to  give  the 
baby  a  really  hearty  welcome.  And  by  some  strange 
sort  of  baby  instinct  he  seemed  to  know  it  almost 
from  the  first.  He  screamed  at  Jack,  and  no  wonder, 
for  Jack,  by  way  of  salutation,  pinched  his  poor  little 
nose,  and  said  that  the  next  time  they  had  boiled 
mutton  for  dinner,  cook  need  not  provide  anything 
but  turnips,  as  there  was  a  fine  crop  of  carrots  all 


6  "  CARROTS." 

ready,  which  piece  of  wit  was  greatly  applauded  by 
Maurice  and  the  girls.  He  wailed  when  Cecil  and 
Louise  begged  to  be  allowed  to  hold  him  in  their 
arms,  so  that  they  both  tumbled  him  back  on  to 
nurse's  lap  in  a  hurry,  and  called  him  "  a  cross,  ugly 
little  thing."  Only  when  little  Floss  sat  down  on  the 
floor,  spreading  out  her  knees  with  great  solemnity, 
and  smoothing  her  pinafore  to  make  a  nice  place  for 
baby,  and  nurse  laid  him  carefully  down  in  the  em- 
brace of  her  tiny  arms,  "baby"  seemed  quite  content. 
He  gave  a  sort  of  wriggle,  like  a  dog  when  he  has 
been  pretending  to  burrow  a  hole  for  himself  in  the 
rug,  just  before  he  settles  down  and  shuts  his  eyes, 
and  in  half  a  second  was  fast  asleep. 

"  Baby  loves  Floss,"  said  Floss  gravely,  and  as 
long  as  nurse  would  let  her,  till  her  arms  really 
ached,  there  she  sat  on  the  floor,  as  still  as  a  mouse, 
holding  her  precious  burden. 

It  was  wonderful  how  trusty  she  was.  And  "  as 
handy,"  said  nurse,  "indeed  far  more  handy  than 
many  a  girl  of  five  times  her  age."  "I  have  been 
thinking,"  she  said,  one  day  to  Floss's  mother,  "  I 
have  been  thinking,  ma'am,  that  even  if  you  had 
been  going  to  keep  an  under-nurse  to  help  with 
baby,  there  would  have  been  nothing  for  her  to  do. 
For  the  help  I  get  from  Miss  Flossie  is  really  aston- 
ishing, and  Master  Baby  is  that  fond  of  her  already, 
you'd  hardly  believe  it." 

And  Floss's  mother  kissed  her,  and  told  her  she 


FLOSS  S   BABY.  7 

was  a  good  little  soul,  and  Floss  felt,  oh,  so  proud ! 
Then  a  second  thought  struck  her,  "  Baby  dood  too, 
mamma,"  she  said,  staring  up  into  her  mother's  face 
with  her  bright  searching  gray-green  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  mother  with  a  little  sigh,  "  poor 
baby  is  good  too,  dear,"  and  then  she  had  to  hurry 
off  to  a  great  overhauling  of  Jack's  shirts,  which 
were,  if  possible,  to  be  made  to  last  him  another 
half-year  at  school. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  a  great  deal  of  Floss's 
life  was  spent  in  the  nursery  with  Carrots.  He 
was  better  than  twenty  dolls,  for  after  a  while  he 
actually  learnt,  first  to  stand  alone,  and  then  to 
walk,  and  after  a  longer  while  he  learnt  to  talk, 
and  to  understand  all  that  Floss  said  to  him,  and 
bye-and-bye  to  play  games  with  her  in  his  baby  way. 
And  how  patient  Floss  was  with  him !  It  was  no 
wonder  he  loved  her. 

This  chapter  has  seemed  almost  more  about  Floss 
than  Carrots  you  will  say,  perhaps,  but  I  couldn't 
tell  you  anything  of  Carrots'  history  without  telling 
you  a  great  deal  about  Floss  too,  so  I  dare  say 
you  won't  mind.  I  dare  say  too  you  will  not  care 
to  hear  much  more  about  Carrots  when  he  was  a 
baby,  for,  after  all,  babies  are  all  very  like  each 
other,  and  a  baby  that  wasn't  like  others  would  not 
be  a  baby !  To  Floss  I  fancy  he  seemed  a  remark- 
able baby,  but  that  may  have  been  because  he  was 
her  very  own,  and  the  only  baby  she  had  ever 


8  "  CARROTS." 

known.  He  was  certainly  very  good,  in  so  far  as 
he  gave  nurse  exceedingly  little  trouble,  but  why 
children  should  give  trouble  when  they  are  per- 
fectly well,  and  have  everything  they  can  possibly 
want,  I  have  never  been  able  to  decide.  On  the 
whole,  I  think  it  must  have  something  to  do  with 
the  people  who  take  care  of  them,  as  well  as  with 
themselves. 

Now  we  will  say  good-bye  to  Carrots,  as  a  baby. 


CHAPTER   II. 

SIX  YEARS   OLD. 

"As  for  me,  I  love  the  sea, 
The  dear  old  sea  ! 

Don't  you  ?  " 

SONG. 

I  THINK  I  said  there  was  nothing  very  remarkable 
about  the  place  where  Carrots  lived,  but  consider- 
ing it  over,  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  you  would 
agree  with  me.  It  was  near  the  sea  for  one  thing, 
and  that  is  always  remarkable,  is  it  not?  How 
remarkable,  how  wonderful  and  changeful  the  sea 
is,  I  doubt  if  any  one  can  tell  who  has  not  really 
lived  by  it,  not  merely  visited  it  for  a  few  weeks  in 
the  fine  summer  time,  when  it  looks  so  bright  and 
sunny  and  inviting,  but  lived  by  it  through  autumn 
and  winter  too,  through  days  when  it  looks  so  dull 
and  leaden,  that  one  can  hardly  believe  it  will  ever 
be  smiling  and  playful  again,  through  fierce,  rough 
days,  when  it  lashes  itself  with  fury,  and  the  wind 
wails  as  if  it  were  trying  to  tell  the  reason. 

Carrots'  nursery  window  looked  straight  out  upon 
the  sea,  and  many  and  many  an  hour  Floss  and  he 
spent  at  this  window,  watching  their  strange  fickle 
neighbour  at  his  gambols.  I  do  not  know  that  they 


10  "  CARROTS." 

thought  the  sea  at  all  wonderful.  I  think  they  were 
too  much  accustomed  to  it  for  that,  but  they  cer- 
tainly found  it  very  interesting.  Floss  had  names 
for  the  different  kinds  of  waves ;  some  she  called 
"ribs  of  beef,"  when  they  showed  up  sideways  in 
layers  as  it  were,  of  white  and  brown,  and  some  she 
called  "  ponies."  That  was  the  kind  that  came  pranc- 
ing in,  with  a  sort  of  dance,  the  white  foam  curling 
and  rearing,  and  tossing  itself,  just  exactly  like  a 
frisky  pony's  mane.  Those  were  the  prettiest  waves 
of  all,  I  think. 

It  was  not  at  all  a  dangerous  coast,  where  the 
Cove  House,  that  was  Carrots'  home,  stood.  It  was 
not  what  is  called  "  picturesque."  It  was  a  long 
flat  stretch  of  sandy  shore,  going  on  and  on  for  miles 
just  the  same.  There  were  very  few  trees  and  no 
mountains,  not  even  hills. 

In  summer,  a  few,  just  a  very  few  visitors  used  to 
come  to  Sandyshore  for  bathing ;  they  were  always 
visitors  with  children,  for  every  one  said  it  was  such 
a  nice  safe  place  for  the  little  people. 

But,  safe  as  it  was,  it  wasn't  till  Carrots  was  grow- 
ing quite  a  big  boy,  nearly  six,  I  should  think,  that 
Floss  and  he  got  leave  to  go  out  and  play  on  the  shore 
by  themselves,  the  thing  they  had  been  longing  for 
ever  since  they  could  remember. 

This  was  how  they  did  get  leave  at  last.  Nurse 
was  very,  very  busy,  one  day  ;  really  quite  extra 
busy,  for  she  was  arranging  and  helping  to  pack 


SIX   YEAKS   OLD.  11 

Jack's  things  to  go  to  a  new  school.  Jack  was  so 
big  now,  about  sixteen,  that  he  was  going  to  a  kind 
of  college,  or  grown-up  school,  the  last  he  would 
go  to,  before  entering  the  army.  And  there  was 
quite  a  fuss  in  the  house.  Jack  thought  himself 
almost  as  grand  as  if  he  was  an  officer  already,  and 
Mott  was  overpowered  with  envy.  Everybody  was 
fussing  about  Jack,  and  no  one  had  much  time  to 
think  of  the  two  little  ones. 

They  stood  at  the  nursery  window,  poor  little 
souls,  when  Floss  came  up  from  her  lessons,  gazing 
out  wistfully.  It  was  a  nice  spring  day,  not  exactly 
sunny,  but  looking  as  if  the  sun  were  only  hiding 
himself  to  tease  you,  arid  might  come  out  any 
minute. 

"  If  we  might  go  down  to  the  shore,"  said  Floss, 
half  to  herself,  half  to  Carrots,  and  half  to  nurse. 
I  shouldn't  have  said  it  so,  for  there  can't  be  three 
halves  of  anything,  but  no  doubt  you  will  under- 
stand. 

"  Go  down  to  the  shore,  my  dear  ?  "  repeated  nurse, 
"I  wish  you  could,  I'm  sure,  but  it  will  be  afternoon, 
at  least,  before  I  have  a  minute  to  spare  to  take  you. 
And  there's  no  one  else  to-day,  for  cook  and  Esther 
are  both  as  busy  as  busy.  Perhaps  Miss  Cecil  and 
Miss  Louise  will  take  you  when  they  have  done  their 
lessons." 

"We  don't  care  to  go  with  them,  much,"  said 
Floss,  "they  don't  understand  our  plays.  We  like 


12 

best  to  go  with  you,  nursie,  and  you  to  sit  down 
with  your  sewing  near — that's  the  nicest  way.  Oh, 
nurse,"  she  exclaimed  with  sudden  eagerness, 
"  wouldn't  you  let  us  go  alone  ?  You  can  peep  out 
of  the  window  and  see  us  every  few  minutes,  and 
we'll  be  so  good." 

Nurse  looked  out  of  the  window  doubtfully. 

"Couldn't  you  play  in  the  garden  at  the  back, 
instead?  "  she  said.  "  Your  papa  and  mamma  won't 
be  home  till  late,  and  I  am  always  in  a  terror  of  any 
harm  happening  while  they  are  away." 

"  We  won't  let  any  harm  happen,"  said  Floss, 
"  and  we  are  so  tired  of  the  garden,  nurse.  There 
is  nothing  to  play  at  there.  The  little  waves  are  so 
pretty  this  morning." 

There  was  certainly  very  little  to  play  at  in  the 
green,  at  the  back  of  the  house,  which  was  called  the 
garden.  Being  so  near  the  sea,  the  soil  was  so  poor, 
that  hardly  any  flowers  would  grow,  and  even  the 
grass  was  coarse  and  lumpy.  Then  there  were  no 
trees,  and  what  is  a  garden  without  trees  ? 

Nurse  looked  out  of  the  window  again. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  if  you  will  really  be  very  good, 
I  think  I  might  trust  you.  Now,  Master  Carrots, 
you  will  promise  to  do  exactly  what  Miss  Floss  tells 
you?" 

"Yes,  I  promise,"  said  Carrots,  who  had  been 
listening  with  great  anxiety,  though  he  had  not 
hitherto  spoken  —  he  was  not  a  great  talker  —  "I 


SIX  YEARS   OLD.  13 

promise,  nurse.  I  will  do  exactly  what  Floss  tells 
me,  and  Floss  will  do  exactly  what  I  tell  her,  won't 
you,  Floss  ?  So  we  shall  both  be  kite  good,  that  way, 
won't  we  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  nurse  gravely,  though  she  felt 
very  much  inclined  to  laugh,  "then  run  and  get 
your  things  as  fast  as  you  can." 

And,  oh,  how  happy  the  two  were  when  they 
found  themselves  out  on  the  shore  all  alone  !  They 
were  so  happy,  they  did  not  know  what  to  do ;  so 
first  of  all,  they  ran  races  to  run  away  a  little  of  the 
happiness.  And  when  they  had  run  themselves 
quite  hot,  they  sat  down  on  a  little  heap  of  stones  to 
consider  what  they  should  do  next.  They  had  no 
spades  with  them,  for  they  did  not  care  very  much 
about  digging ;  children  who  live  always  by  the  sea 
never  care  so  much  about  digging  as  the  little 
visitors  who  come  down  in  the  summer,  and  whose 
very  first  idea  at  the  sight  of  the  sea  is  "  spades  and 
buckets." 

"  What  shall  we  play  at,  Carrots  ?  "  said  Floss,  "  I 
wish  it  was  warm  enough  to  paddle." 

Carrots  looked  at  the  little  soft  rippling  waves, 
contemplatively. 

"  When  I'm  a  man,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  paddle 
always.  I  shall  paddle  in  winter  too.  When  I'm  a 
man  I  won't  have  no  nurse." 

"  Carrots,"  said  Floss,  reproachfully,  "  that  isn't 
good  of  you.  Think  how  kind  nurse  is." 


14 

"  Well,  then,"  replied  Carrots,  slowly,  "  I  will  have 
her,  but  she  must  let  me  paddle  always,  when  I'm  a 
man." 

"  When  you  are  a  man,  Carrots,"  said  Floss,  sol- 
emnly still,  "  I  hope  you  will  have  something  better 
to  do  than  paddling.  Perhaps  you'll  be  a  soldier, 
like  Jack." 

"  Killing  people  isn't  better  than  paddling,"  re- 
torted Carrots.  "  I'd  rather  be  a  sailor,  like  papa." 

"  Sailors  have  to  kill  people,  too,  sometimes,"  said 
Floss. 

"Have  they  ? "  said  Carrots.  Then  he  sat  silent 
for  a  few  minutes,  rinding  this  new  idea  rather  over- 
whelming. "  Naughty  people,  do  you  mean,  Floss?  " 
he  inquired  at  last. 

"  Yes,"  said  Floss,  unhesitatingly,  "  naughty  people, 
of  course." 

"But  I  don't  like  killing,"  said  Carrots,  "  not  kill- 
ing naughty  people,  I  don't  like.  I  won't  be  a  sol- 
dier, and  I  won't  be  a  sailor,  and  I  won't  be  a  butcher, 
'cos  butchers  kill  lambs.  Perhaps  I'll  be  a  fisher- 
man." 

"  But  fishermen  kill  fish,"  said  Floss. 

"  Do  they  ?  "  said  Carrots,  looking  up  in  her  face 
pathetically  with  his  gentle  brown  eyes.  "  I'm  so 
sorry.  I  don't  understand  about  killing,  Floss.  I 
don't  like  it." 

"  I  don't  either,"  said  Floss  ;  "  but  perhaps  it  has  to 
be.  If  there  was  no  killing  we'd  have  nothing  to  eat." 


SIX   YEARS   OLD.  15 

"  Eggs,"  said  Carrots  ;  "  eggs  and  potatoes,  and 
—  and  — cake?" 

"  But  even  that  would  be  a  sort  of  killing,"  per- 
sisted Floss,  though  feeling  by  no  means  sure  that 
she  was  not  getting  beyond  her  depth,  "  if  we  didn't 
eat  eggs  they  would  grow  into  chickens,  and  so  eat- 
ing stops  them ;  and  potatoes  have  roots,  and  when 
they're  pulled  up  they  don't  grow;  and  cake  has 
eggs  in,  and  —  oh  I  don't  know,  let's  talk  of  some- 
thing else." 

"  What  ?  "  said  Carrots,  "  Fairies  ?  " 

"  If  you  like,  or  supposing  we  talk  about  when 
auntie  comes  and  brings  '  Sybil.' ' 

"  Yes,"  said  Carrots,  "  I  like  that  best." 

"Well,  then,"  began  Floss,  "supposing  it  is  late 
in  the  evening  when  they  come.  You  would  be  in 
bed,  Carrots,  dear,  but  I  would  have  begged  to  sit 
up  a  little  longer  and  —  " 

"No,  Floss,  that  isn't  nice.  I  won't  talk  about 
Sybil,  if  you  make  it  like  that,"  interrupted  Carrots, 
his  voice  sounding  as  if  he  were  going  to  cry.  "  Sybil 
isn't  not  any  bigger  than  me.  I  wouldn't  be  in  bed, 
Floss." 

"  Very  well,  dear.  Never  mind  darling.  I  won't 
make  it  like  that.  It  was  very  stupid  of  me.  No, 
Sybil  and  auntie  will  come  just  about  our  tea-time, 
and  we  shall  be  peeping  along  the  road  to  see  if  the 
carriage  from  the  station  is  coming,  and  when  we 
hear  it  we'll  run  in,  and  perhaps  mamma  will  say  we 


16  "  CAKROTS." 

may  stay  in  the  drawing-room  to  see  them.  You 
will  have  one  of  your  new  sailor  suits  on,  Carrots, 
and  I  shall  have  my  white  piqu6  and  blue  sash,  and 
nurse  will  have  made  the  nursery  tea-table  look  so 
nice  —  with  a  clean  table-cloth,  you  know,  and  quite 
thin  bread  and  butter,  and  jam,  and,  perhaps,  eggs." 

"  I  won't  eat  one,"  interrupted  Carrots ;  "  I  won't 
never  eat  eggs.  I'll  keep  all  mine  that  I  get  to  eat, 
in  a  box,  till  they've  growed  into  chickens." 

"But  they're  boiled  when  you  get  them,"  said 
Floss ;  "  they  wouldn't  grow  into  chickens  when 
they're  boiled." 

Carrots  sighed.  "Well,  never  mind,"  he  said, 
"  go  on,  Floss." 

"Well,  then,"  started  Floss  again,  "you  see  the 
nursery  tea  would  look  so  nice  that  Sybil  would  be 
sure  to  ask  her  mamma  to  let  her  have  tea  with  us, 
even  though  it  was  the  first  evening.  Perhaps,  you 
know,  she  would  be  rather  s%,  just  at  first,  till  she 
got  to  know  us.  So  we  would  be  very,  very  kind  to 
her,  and  after  tea  we  would  show  her  all  our  things 
—  the  dolls,  only  —  Carrots,  I'm  afraid  the  dolls  are 
getting  rather  old." 

"  Are  they  ?  "  said  Carrots,  sympathisingly .  "  When 
I'm  a  man  I'll  buy  you  such  a  lot  of  new  dolls,  Floss, 
and  Sybil,  too,  if  she  likes  dolls  —  does  she,  Floss  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I  should  think  so,"  said  Floss. 
"  When  papa  and  mamma  went  to  see  auntie,  they 
said  Sybil  was  like  a  doll  herself.  I  suppose  she  has 


SIX  YEARS   OLD.  17 

beautiful  blue  eyes  and  long  gold  curls.  That  was  a 
year  ago  ;  she  must  be  bigger  now.  Carrots." 

"What?" 

"  We  must  get  up  and  run  about  a  little  now.  It's 
too  cold  to  sit  still  so  long,  and  if  we  get  cold,  nurse 
won't  let  us  come  out  alone  again." 

Up  jumped  Carrots  on  to  his  sturdy  little  legs. 
"  I'll  run,  Floss,"  he  said. 

"  Floss,"  he  began,  when  they  stopped  to  take  breath 
again,  "  once  I  saw  a  little  boy  with  a-  hoop.  It  went 
so  nice  on  the  sands.  I  wish  I  had  a  hoop,  Floss." 

"  I  wish  you  had,  dear,"  said  Floss.  "  I'd  buy  you 
one,  if  I  had  any  money.  But  I  haven't,  and  we 
couldn't  ask  mamma,  because  I  know,"  and  Floss 
shook  her  head  mysteriously,  "  I  know  poor  mamma 
hasn't  any  money  to  spare.  I  must  think  of  a  plan 
to  get  some." 

Carrots  kept  silence  for  about  three-quarters  of  a 
minute.  "Have  you  thinkened,  Floss?"  he  asked, 
eagerly. 

"  Thought,"  gravely  said  Floss,  "  not  thinkened, 
what  about?" 

"  About  a  plan,"  replied  Carrots.  He  called  it  "  a 
pan,"  but  Floss  understood  him. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  Floss,  "  not  yet.  Plans  take 
a  great  lot  of  thinking.  They're  real  things,  you 
see,  Carrots,  not  like  fancies  about  fairies  and  Sybil 
coming." 

"  But  when  Sybil  does  come,  that'll  be  real  then," 
said  Carrots. 


18  "  CARROTS." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Floss,  "but  fancying  about 
it  before,  isn't  real." 

It  took  Carrots  a  little  while  to  get  this  into  his 
head.  Then  he  began  again. 

"When  will  you  have  thinkened  enough,  Floss? 
By  tea-time  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  No,  I  think  you  had  better  wait 
till  to-morrow  morning,  and  then  perhaps  the  plan 
will  be  ready." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Carrots,  adding,  with  a  little 
sigh,  "  to-morrow  morning  is  a  long  time,  Floss." 

"  Not  very,"  said  Floss,  consolingly.  "  Now 
Carrots,  let's  have  one  more  race,  and  then  we  must 
go  in." 


CHAPTER  III. 

PLANS. 

"  '  Have  you  invented  a  plan  for  it  ?  '  Alice  inquired, 
'  Not  yet,'  said  the  knight." 

THROUGH  THE  LOOKING-GLASS. 

THE  next  morning  Carrots  woke  very  early,  and 
the  first  thing  he  thought  of  was  the  plan.  Floss 
and  he  slept  in  the  night  nursery,  in  two  little  beds, 
and  nurse  slept  in  a  small  room  that  had  a  door  open- 
ing into  the  nursery.  She  used  to  sleep  there  herself, 
but  now  that  Carrots  was  so  big,  Floss  and  he  were 
quite  safe  by  themselves,  and  poor  old  nurse  enjoyed 
having  her  own  little  room. 

Floss  was  still  asleep,  so  Carrots  only  climbed  out 
of  his  own  cot  into  hers,  and  crouched  himself  down 
at  the  foot,  watching  for  her  to  wake.  Floss  looked 
very  nice  asleep;  her  "fuzzy"  hair  was  tumbling 
over  the  pillow,  and  her  cheeks  looked  pinker  than 
when  she  was  awake. 

"I  wonder  what  being  asleep  is,"  thought  the 
little  boy  as  he  looked  at  her.  "  I  always  go  away, 
such  a  long  way,  when  I  am  asleep.  I  wonder  if 
Floss  does." 

She  couldn't  have  been  very  far  away  just  then, 
for  somehow,  though  Carrots  sat  so  still,  she  seemed 
to  know  he  was  there.  She  turned  round  and  half 

19 


20  "  CARROTS." 

opened  her  eyes,  then  shut  them  as  if  she  were  trying 
to  go  to  sleep  again,  then  opened  them  once  more, 
quite  wide  this  time,  and  caught  sight  of  the  funny 
little  figure  beside  her. 

"  Carrots,"  she  said,  in  a  sleepy  voice,  "  Carrots, 
dear,  what  are  you  doing  there  ?  You'll  catch  cold." 

"No,  I  won't.  May  I  come  in  'aside  you,  Floss? 
I  was  only  watching  for  you  to  wake  ;  I  didn't  wake 
you,  did  I  ? "  said  Carrots,  as  Floss  made  room  for 
him,  and  he  poked  his  cold  little  toes  down  into  a 
nice  warm  place,  "  I  did  so  want  to  know  if  it  was 
ready,  for  it's  to-morrow  morning  now." 

"  If  what's  ready  ?  "  said  Floss,  for  she  was  rather 
sleepy  still. 

"  The  plan  for  getting  money." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Floss.  "  Yes,"  she  went  on  after 
thinking  for  a  minute,  "yes,  it's  nearly  ready;  at 
least  I'm  almost  sure  it  is.  But  it's  not  quite  ready 
for  telling  you,  yet,  Carrots." 

Carrots  looked  terribly  disappointed. 

"  I  think,"  went  on  Floss,  "  I  think  it  will  be  ready 
for  telling  you  after  breakfast.  And  if  you  like,  you 
may  listen  to  something  I  am  going  to  ask  nurse  at 
breakfast,  and,  perhaps,  that  will  help  you  to  guess 
what  the  plan  is." 

At  breakfast  time  Carrots  was  all  ears.  All  ears 
and  no  tongue,  so  that  nurse  began  to  wonder  if  he 
was  ill. 

"  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  be  ill  the  very  day  after 


PLANS.  21 

Master  Jack  has  gone,"  she  said  anxiously  (Jack  had 
gone  up  to  town  by  the  night  train  with  his  father), 
"  one  trouble  at  a  time  is  quite  enough  for  your  poor 
mamma." 

"Is  Jack's  going  to  the  big  school  a  trouble?" 
asked  Floss,  opening  her  eyes  very  wide,  "  I  thought 
they  were  all  very  glad." 

"My  dear,"  said  nurse  solemnly,  "one  may  be 
glad  of  a  thing  and  sorry  too.  And  changes  mostly 
are  good  and  bad  together." 

Floss  did  not  say  any  more,  but  she  seemed  to  be 
thinking  about  what  nurse  had  said.  Carrots  was 
thinking  too. 

"  When  I'm  a  man,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  won't  go 
to  a  big  school  if  Floss  doesn't  want  me  to." 

Nurse  smiled.  "  There's  time  enough  to  see  about 
that,"  she  said,  "get  on  with  your  breakfast,  Master 
Carrots ;  you'll  never  grow  a  big  boy  if  you  don't 
eat  plenty." 

"  Nurse,"  said  Floss,  suddenly,  "  what's  the  dearest 
thing  we  eat  ?  what  costs  most  ?  " 

"  Meat,  now-a-days,  Miss  Flossie,"  said  nurse. 

"Could  we  do  without  it?"  asked  Floss.  Nurse 
shook  her  head. 

"  What  could  we  do  without  ? "  continued  the 
child.  "We  couldn't  do  without  bread  or  milk,  I 
suppose.  What  could  we  do  without  that  costs 
money?" 

"  Most  things  do  that,"  said  nurse,  who  began  to 


22 

have  a  glimmering  of  what  Floss  was  driving  at, 
"  but  the  money's  well  spent  in  good  food  to  make 
you  strong  and  well." 

"Then  isn't  there  anything  we  could  do  without 
—  without  it  hurting  us,  I  mean  ?  "  said  Floss,  in  a 
tone  of  disappointment. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  nurse,  "  I  dare  say  there  is.  Once 
a  little  boy  and  girl  I  knew  went  without  sugar  in 
their  tea  for  a  month,  and  their  grandmother  gave 
them  sixpence  each  instead." 

"  Sixpence  ! "  exclaimed  Floss,  her  eyes  gleaming. 

"  Sixpence  each,"  corrected  nurse. 

"  Two  sixpences,  that  would  be  a  shilling.  Carrots, 
do  you  hear?" 

Carrots  had  be'en  listening  with  might  and  main, 
but  was  rather  puzzled. 

"  Would  two  sixpennies  pay  for  two  hoops  ? "  he 
whispered  to  Floss,  pulling  her  pinafore  till  she  bent 
her  head  down  to  listen. 

"  Of  course  they  would.  At  least  I'm  almost  sure. 
I'll  ask  nurse.  Nurse  dear,"  she  went  on  in  a  louder 
voice,  "do  you  think  we  might  do  that  way — Carrots 
and  I  —  about  sugar,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  would  do  you  any  harm,"  said 
nurse.  "  You  must  ask  your  mamma." 

But  Floss  hesitated. 

"  I  shouldn't  much  like  to  ask  mamma,"  she  said, 
and  Carrots,  who  was  listening  so  intently  that  he 
had  forgotten  all  about  his  bread  and  milk,  noticed 


PLANS.  23 

that  Floss's  face  grew  red.  "  I  shouldn't  much  like 
to  ask  mamma,  because,  nursie,  dear,  it  is  only  that 
we  want  to  get  money  for  something  for  ourselves, 
and  if  we  told  mamma,  it  would  be  like  asking  her 
to  give  us  the  money.  It  wouldn't  be  any  harm  for 
us  not  to  eat  any  sugar  in  our  tea  for  a  month,  and 
you  could  keep  the  sugar  in  a  packet  all  together, 
nurse,  and  then  you  might  tell  mamma  that  we  had 
saved  it,  and  she  would  give  us  a  shilling  for  it.  It 
would  be  quite  worth  a  shilling,  wouldn't  it,  nurse  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  nurse,  "  I  am  sure  your  mamma 
would  say  it  was."  Then  she  considered  a  little. 
She  was  one  of  those  truly  trustworthy  nurses  whose 
notions  are  strong  on  the  point  of  everything  being 
told  to  "mamma."  But  she  perfectly  understood 
Floss's  hesitation,  and  though  she  might  not  have 
been  able  to  put  her  feeling  into  words,  she  felt  that 
it  might  do  the  child  harm  to  thwart  her  delicate 
instinct. 

"  Well,  nurse  ?  "  said  Floss,  at  last. 

"Well,  Miss  Flossie,  I  don't  think  for  once  I  shall 
be  doing  wrong  in  letting  you  have  a  secret.  When 
will  you  begin  ?  This  is  Thursday ;  on  Saturday 
your  mamma  will  give  me  the  week's  sugar  —  sup- 
pose you  begin  on  Sunday  ?  But  does  Master  Carrots 
quite  understand  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Floss,  confidently,  "he  under- 
stands, don't  you,  dear  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Carrots,  "we  won't  eat  not  any 


24  "  CARROTS." 

sugar,  Floss  and  me,  for  a  great  long  time,  and 
nurse  will  tie  it  up  in  a  parcel  with  a  string  round, 
and  mamma  will  buy  it  and  give  us  a  great  lot  of 
pennies,  and  then,  and  then "  —  he  began  to  jump 
about  with  delight  — "  Floss  and  me  will  go  to  the 
toy-shop  and  buy  our  hoops,  won't  we,  Floss?  Oh 
I  wish  it  was  time  to  go  now,  don't  you,  Floss  ? " 

"Yes,  dear,  a  month's  a  good  while  to  wait," 
said  Floss  sympathisingly.  "May  we  go  out  on 
the  shore  again  by  ourselves  this  afternoon,  nurse  ?  " 

"  If  it  doesn't  rain,"  said  nurse ;  and  Floss,  who 
had  half  an  hour  to  wait  before  it  was  time  for  her 
to  join  her  sisters  in  the  schoolroom,  went  to  the 
window  to  have  a  look  at  the  weather.  She  had  not 
stood  there  for  more  than  a  minute  when  Carrots 
climbed  up  on  to  a  chair  beside  her. 

"  It's  going  to  rain,  Floss,"  he  said,  "  there  are 
the  little  curly  clouds  in  the  sky  that  Matthew 
says  come  when  it  rains." 

Floss  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  down  at  the  sea. 

"  The  sea  looks  cross  to-day,"  she  said. 

There  were  no  pretty  ripples  this  morning ;  the 
water  looked  dull  and  leaden. 

"  Floss,"  said  Carrots,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  do  get  so 
tired  when  you  are  at  lessons  all  the  morning  and  I 
have  nucken  to  do.  Can't  you  think  of  a  plan  for 
me  to  have  something  to  do?"  Carrots'  head  was 
running  on  "plans." 

Floss  considered. 


PLANS.  25 

"  Would  you  like  to  tidy  my  drawer  for  me  ?  "  she 
said.  "  This  isn't  the  regular  day  for  tidying  it,  but 
it  is  in  a  mess,  because  I  turned  all  the  things  upside 
down  when  I  was  looking  for  our  race  horses'  reins 
yesterday.  Will  you  put  it  quite  tidy,  Carrots  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  quite,  dear  Floss,"  said  Carrots,  "I'll 
put  all  the  dolls  neat,  and  all  the  pieces,  and  all 
the  sewing  things.  Oh,  dear  Floss,  what  nice  plans 
you  make." 

So  when  Floss  had  gone  to  her  lessons,  and  nurse 
was  busy  with  her  morning  duties,  in  and  out  of  the 
room,  so  as  not  to  lose  sight  of  Carrots,  but  still  too 
busy  to  amuse  him,  he,  with  great  delight,  set  to 
work  at  the  drawer.  It  certainly  was  much  in  need 
of  "tidying,"  and  after  trying  several  ways,  Carrots 
found  that  the  best  plan  was  to  take  everything 
out,  and  then  put  the  different  things  back  again  in 
order,  It  took  him  a  good  while,  and  his  face  got 
rather  red  with  stooping  down  to  the  floor  to  pick  up 
all  the  things  he  had  deposited  there,  for  the  drawer 
itself  was  too  heavy  for  him  to  lift  out  bodily,  if, 
indeed,  such  an  idea  had  occurred  to  him.  It  was 
the  middle  drawer  of  the  cupboard,  the  top  part  of 
which  was  divided  into  shelves  where  the  nursery 
cups  and  saucers  and  those  sort  of  things  stood. 
The  drawer  above  Floss's  was  nurse's,  where  she 
kept  her  work,  and  a  few  books,  and  a  little  note- 
paper  and  so  on;  and  the  drawer  at  the  bottom, 
so  that  he  could  easily  reach  it,  was  Carrots'  own. 


26  "  CAEEOTS." 

One  end  of  Floss's  drawer  was  given  up  to  her 
dolls.  She  still  had  a  good  many,  for  though  she 
did  not  care  for  them  now  as  much  as  she  used,  she 
never  could  be  persuaded  to  throw  any  of  them 
away.  But  they  were  not  very  pretty ;  even 
Carrots  could  see  that,  and  Carrots,  to  tell  the 
truth,  was  very  fond  of  dolls. 

"  If  I  had  some  money,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I 
would  buy  Floss  such  a  most  beautiful  doll.  I 
wish  I  had  some  money." 

For  the  moment  he  forgot  about  the  hoops  and 
the  "  plan  "  and  sat  down  on  a  little  stool  with  one 
of  the  unhappiest  looking  of  the  dolls  in  his  arms. 

"  I  wish  I  could  buy  you  a  new  face,  poor  dolly," 
he  said.  "  I  wish  I  had  some  money." 

He  got  up  again  to  put  poor  dolly  back  into  her 
corner.  As  he  was  smoothing  down  the  paper  which 
lined  the  drawer,  he  felt  something  hard  close  to 
dolly's  foot ;  he  pushed  away  the  dolls  to  see  — 
there,  almost  hidden  by  a  crumple  in  the  paper 
lay  a  tiny  little  piece  of  money  —  a  little  shining 
piece,  about  the  size  of  a  sixpence,  only  a  different 
colour. 

"  A  yellow  sixpenny,  oh,  how  nice ! "  thought 
Carrots,  as  he  seized  it.  "  I  wonder  if  Floss  knowed 
it  was  there.  It  would  just  do  to  buy  a  new  doll. 
I  wish  I  could  go  to  the  toy-shop  to  buy  one  to 
surprise  Floss.  I  won't  tell  Floss  I've  found  it. 
I'll  keep  it  for  a  secret,  and  some  day  I'll  buy  Floss 


"A  YELLOW  SIXPENNY,  OH,  HOW  NICE!"  — p.  26. 


PLANS.  27 

a  new  doll.  I'm  sure  Floss  doesn't  know  —  I  think 
the  fairies  must  have  put  it  there." 

He  wrapped  the  piece  of  money  up  carefully  in  a 
bit  of  paper,  and  after  considering  where  he  could 
best  hide  it,  so  that  Floss  should  not  know  till  it 
was  time  to  surprise  her,  he  fixed  on  a  beautiful 
place  —  he  hid  it  under  one  of  the  little  round 
saucers  in  his  paint-box  —  a  very  old  paint-box 
it  was,  which  had  descended  from  Jack,  first  to 
Mott  and  then  to  Carrots,  but  which,  all  the  same, 
Carrots  considered  one  of  his  greatest  treasures. 

When  nurse  came  into  the  room,  she  found  the 
tidying  of  the  drawer  completed,  and  Carrots  sitting 
quietly  by  the  window.  He  did  not  tell  her  about 
the  money  he  had  found,  it  never  entered  into  his 
little  head  that  he  should  speak  of  it.  He  had  got 
into  the  way  of  not  telling  all  the  little  things  that 
happened  to  him  to  any  one  but  Floss,  for  he  was 
naturally  a  very  quiet  child,  and  nurse  was  getting 
too  old  to  care  about  all  the  tiny  interests  of  her 
children  as  she  once  had  done.  Besides,  he  had 
determined  to  keep  it  a  secret,  even  from  Floss,  till 
he  could  buy  a  new  doll  with  it  —  but  very  likely 
he  would  have  told  her  of  it  after  all,  had  not  some- 
thing else  put  it  out  of  his  head. 

The  something  else  was  that  that  afternoon  nurse 
took  Floss  and  him  a  long  walk,  and  a  walk  they 
were  very  fond  of. 

It  was  to  the  cottage  of  the  old  woman,  who,  ever 


28  "  CARROTS." 

since  they  had  come  to  Sandyshore,  had  washed  for 
them.  She  was  a  very  nice  old  woman,  and  her 
cottage  was  beautifully  clean,  and  now  and  then 
Floss  and  Carrots  had  gone  with  nurse  to  have  tea 
with  her,  which  was  a  great  treat.  But  to-day  they 
were  not  going  to  tea  ;  they  were  only  going  because 
nurse  had  to  pay  Mrs.  White  some  money  for  wash- 
ing up  Jack's  things  quickly,  and  nurse  knew  the 
old  woman  would  be  glad  to  have  it,  as  it  was  close 
to  the  day  on  which  she  had  to  pay  her  rent. 

Floss  and  Carrots  were  delighted  to  go,  for  even 
when  they  did  not  stay  to  tea,  Mrs.  White  always 
gave  them  a  glass  of  milk,  and,  generally,  a  piece 
of  home-made  cake. 

Before  they  started,  nurse  went  to  her  drawer 
and  took  out  of  it  a  very  small  packet  done  up  in 
white  paper,  and  this  little  packet  she  put  into  her 
purse. 

It  was,  after  all,  a  nice  fine  day.  Floss  and 
Carrots  walked  quietly  beside  nurse  for  a  little,  and 
then  she  gave  them  leave  to  run  races,  which  made 
the  way  seem  very  short,  till  they  got  to  Mrs. 
White's. 

"  How  nice  it  will  be  when  we  have  our  hoops, 
won't  it,  Carrots  ?  "  said  Floss. 

Carrots  had  almost  forgotten  about  the  hoops,  but 
now  that  Floss  mentioned  them,  it  put  him  in  mind 
of  something  else. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  a  new  doll,  Floss  ?  "  he  said 


PLANS.  29 

mysteriously,  "  a  most  beautifullest  new  doll,  with 
hair  like  —  like  the  angels'  hairs  in  the  big  window 
at  church,  and  eyes  like  the  little  blue  stones  in 
mamma's  ring  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  would,"  said  Floss,  "  and  we'd  call 
her  Angelina,  wouldn't  we,  Carrots?  But  it's  no 
good  thinking  about  it  —  I  shall  never  have  one  like 
that,  unless  the  fairies  send  it  me  ! " 

"If  the  fairies  sended  you  money  to  buy  one, 
wouldn't  that  do  ?  "  said  Carrots,  staring  up  in  her 
face  with  a  funny  look  in  his  eyes. 

But  before  Floss  had  time  to  answer,  nurse  called 
to  them  —  they  were  at  the  corner  of  the  lane  which 
led  to  Mrs.  White's. 

Mrs.  White  was  very  kind.  She  had  baked  a  cake 
only  a  day  or  two  before,  and  cut  off  a  beautiful  big 
piece  for  each  of  the  children,  then  she  gave  them  a 
drink  of  milk,  and  they  ran  out  into  her  little  garden 
to  eat  their  cake  and  look  at  the  flowers,  till  nurse 
had  finished  her  business  with  the  old  washerwoman, 
and  was  ready  to  go  home. 

Floss  and  Carrots  thought  a  great  deal  of  Mrs. 
White's  garden.  Small  as  it  was,  it  had  far  more 
flowers  in  it  than  their  own  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
Cove  House,  for  it  was  a  mile  or  two  farther  from  the 
sea,  and  the  soil  was  richer,  and  it  was  more  sheltered 
irom  the  wind. 

In  summer  there  was  what  Floss  called  quite  a 
"  buzzy "  sound  in  this  little  garden  —  she  meant 


30 

that  sweet,  lazy-busy  hum  of  bees  and  butterflies  and 
all  sorts  of  living  creatures,  that  you  never  hear  ex- 
cept in  a  real  old-fashioned  garden  where  there  are 
lots  of  clove  pinks  and  sweet  williams  and  roses,  roses 
especially,  great,  big  cabbage  roses,  and  dear  little 
pink  climbing  roses,  the  kind  that  peep  in  at  a  cot- 
tage window  to  bid  you  "good-morning."  Oh,  how 
very  sweet  those  old-fashioned  flowers  are  —  though 
"  rose  fanciers  "  and  all  the  clever  gardeners  we  have 
now-a-days  wouldn't  give  anything  for  them !  I 
think  them  the  sweetest  of  all.  Don't  you,  children  ? 
Or  is  it  only  when  one  begins  to  grow  old-fashioned 
oneself  and  to  care  more  for  things  that  used  to  be 
than  things  that  are  now,  that  one  gets  to  prize  these 
old  friends  so  ? 

I  am  wandering  away  from  Floss  and  Carrots 
waiting  for  nurse  in  the  cottage  garden;  you  must 
forgive  me,  boys  and  girls  —  when  people  begin  to 
grow  old  they  get  in  the  habit  of  telling  stories  in  a 
rambling  way,  but  I  don't  find  children  so  hard  upon 
this  tiresome  habit  as  big  people  sometimes  are.  And 
it  all  comes  back  to  me  so  —  even  the  old  washer- 
woman's cottage  I  can  see  so  plainly,  and  the  dear 
straggly  little  garden ! 

For  you  see,  children,  I  am  telling  you  the  history 
of  a  real  little  boy  and  girl,  not  fancy  children,  and 
that  is  why,  though  there  is  nothing  very  wonderful 
about  Floss  and  Carrots,  I  hope  the  story  of  their 


PLANS.  31 

little  pleasures  and  sorrows  and  simple  lives  may  be 
interesting  to  you. 

But  I  must  finish  about  the  visit  to  the  washer- 
woman in  another  chapter.  I  have  made  this  one 
rather  too  long  already. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  LOST  HALF-SOVEREIGN. 

"  Children  should  not  leave  about 

Anything  that's  small  and  bright ; 
Lest  the  fairies  spy  it  out, 
And  fly  off  with  it  at  night." 

POEMS    WRITTEN   FOR   A    CHILD. 

THERE  was  no  buzzy  sound  in  Mrs.  White's  garden 
this  afternoon.  It  was  far  too  early  in  the  year  for 
that,  indeed  it  was  beginning  to  feel  quite  chilly 
and  cold,  as  the  afternoons  often  do  of  fine  days  in 
early  spring,  and  by  the  time  Floss  and  Carrots  had 
eaten  their  cake,  and  examined  all  the  rose  bushes  to 
see  if  they  could  find  any  buds,  and  wished  it  were 
summer,  so  that  there  would  be  some  strawberries 
hiding  under  the  glossy  green  leaves,  they  began  to 
wonder  why  nurse  was  so  long  —  and  to  feel  rather 
cold  and  tired  of  waiting. 

"  Just  run  to  the  door,  Carrots,  dear,"  said  Floss, 
"  and  peep  in  to  see  if  nurse  is  coming." 

She  did  not  like  to  go  herself,  for  she  knew  that 
nurse  and  Mrs.  White  were  fond  of  a  comfortable 
talk  together  and  might  not  like  to  be  interrupted  by 
her.  But  Carrots  they  would  not  mind. 

Carrots  set  off  obediently,  but  before  he  got  to  the 
32 


THE  LOST   HALF-SOVEREIGN.  33 

door  he  met  nurse  coming  out.  She  was  followed  by- 
Mrs.  White  and  both  were  talking  rather  earnestly. 

"  You'll  let  me  know,  if  so  be  as  you  find  it,  Mrs. 
Hooper  ;  you  won't  forget  ?  "  —  Mrs.  White  was  say- 
ing —  Hooper  was  nurse's  name  —  "  for  I  feel  quite 
oneasy  —  I  do  that,  for  you." 

"  I'll  let  you  know,  and  thank  you,  Mrs.  White," 
said  nurse.  "  I'm  glad  I  happened  to  bring  some  of 
my  own  money  with  me  too,  for  I  should  have  been 
sorry  to  put  you  to  any  ill-convenience  by  my  care- 
lessness —  though  how  I  could  have  been  so  careless 
as  to  mislay  it,  I'm  sure  it's  more  than  I  can  say." 

"  It  is,  indeed,  and  you  so  careful,"  said  Mrs.  White 
sympathisingly. 

Just  then  nurse  caught  sight  of  Carrots. 

"Come  along,  Master  Carrots,"  she  said,  "I  was 
just  going  to  look  for  you.  Wherever's  Miss  Floss  ? 
We  must  be  quick ;  it's  quite  time  we  were  home." 

"  I'll  tell  Floss,"  said  Carrots,  disappearing  again 
down  the  path,  and  in  another  moment  Floss  and  he 
ran  back  to  nurse. 

Though  they  had  been  very  quick,  nurse  seemed  to 
think  they  had  been  slow.  She  even  scolded  Floss  a 
very  little  as  if  she  had  been  kept  waiting  by  her  and 
Carrots,  when  she  was  in  a  hurry  to  go,  and  both 
F]oss  and  Carrots  felt  that  this  was  very  hard  when 
the  fact  was  that  they  had  been  waiting  for  nurse 
till  they  were  both  tired  and  cold. 

"It  wasn't  Floss's   fault.      Floss  wanted  you  to 


34  "  CARKOTS." 

come  quick,  and  she  sended  me  to  see,"  said  Carrots 
indignantly. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Master  Carrots,"  said  nurse 
sharply. 

Carrots'  face  got  very  red,  he  gave  nurse  one  re- 
proachful look,  but  did  not  speak.  He  took  Floss's 
hand  and  pulled  her  on  in  front.  But  Floss  would 
not  go ;  she  drew  her  hand  away. 

"  No,  Carrots,  dear,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  it 
wouldn't  be  kind  to  leave  nurse  all  alone  when  she 
is  sorry  about  something." 

"  Is  she  sorry  about  somesing  ?  "  said  Carrots. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Floss,  "  I  am  sure  she  is.  You  run 
on  for  a  minute.  I  want  to  speak  to  nurse." 

Carrots  ran  on  and  Floss  stayed  behind. 

"  Nurse,"  she  said  softly,  slipping  her  hand  through 
nurse's  arm,  which,  by  stretching  up  on  tip-toe,  she 
was  just  able  to  do,  "  nurse,  dear,  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  Nothing  much,  Miss  Flossie,"  replied  nurse,  pat- 
ting the  kind  little  hand,  "  nothing  much,  but  I'm 
growing  an  old  woman  and  easy  put  out  —  and  such 
a  stupid  like  thing  for  me  to  have  done  ! " 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  What  is  stupid  ?  "  in- 
quired Floss,  growing  curious  as  well  as  sympathising. 

"  I  have  lost  a  half-sovereign  —  a  ten-shilling  piece 
in  gold,  Miss  Flossie,"  replied  nurse. 

"  Out  of  your  pocket  —  dropped  it,  do  you  mean  ?  " 
said  Floss. 

"  Oh  no  —  I  had  it  in  my  purse  —  at  least  I  thought 


THE  LOST   HALF-SOVEREIGN.  35 

I  had,"  said  nurse.  "  It  was  a  half-sovereign  of  your 
mamma's  that  she  gave  me  to  pay  Mrs.  White  with 
for  Master  Jack's  things  and  part  of  last  week  that 
was  left  over,  and  I  wrapped  it  up  with  a  shilling 
and  a  sixpence  —  it  came  to  eleven  and  six,  altogether 
—  in  a  piece  of  paper,  and  put  it  in  my  drawer  in 
the  nursery,  and  before  I  came  out  I  put  the  packet 
in  my  purse.  And  when  I  opened  it  at  Mrs.  White's 
no  half-sovereign  was  there  !  Only  the  shilling  and 
the  sixpence ! " 

"  You  didn't  drop  it  at  Mrs.  White's,  did  you  ? 
Should  we  go  back  and  look  ?  "  said  Floss,  standing 
still,  as  if  ready  to  run  off  that  moment. 

"No,  no,  my  dear.  It's  not  at  Mrs.  White's. 
She  and  I  searched  all  over,  and  she's  as  honest 
a  body  as  could  be,"  replied  nurse.  "  No,  there's 
just  the  chance  of  its  being  in  the  drawer  at  home. 
I  feel  all  in  a  fever  till  I  get  there  to  look.  But 
don't  you  say  anything  about  it,  Miss  Flossie;  it's 
my  own  fault,  and  no  one  must  be  troubled  about 
it  but  myself." 

"Poor  nursie,"  said  Floss,  "I'm  so  sorry.  But 
you're  sure  to  find  it  in  your  drawer.  Let's  go 
home  very  fast.  Carrots,"  she  called  out  to  the 
little  figure  obediently  trotting  on  in  front,  "  Car- 
rots, come  and  walk  with  nursie  and  me  now. 
Nurse  isn't  vexed." 

Carrots  turned  back,  looking  up  wistfully  in 
nurse's  face. 


36  "  CARROTS." 

"  Poor  darlings,"  said  the  old  woman  to  herself, 
"  such  a  shame  of  me  to  have  spoilt  their  walk ! " 

And  all  the  way  home,  "  to  make  up,"  she  was 
even  kinder  than  usual. 

But  her  hopes  of  rinding  the  lost  piece  of  money 
were  disappointed.  She  searched  all  through  the 
drawer  in  vain ;  there  was  no  half-sovereign  to  be 
seen.  Suddenly  it  struck  her  that  Carrots  had  been 
busy  "  tidying  "  for  Floss  that  morning. 

"Master  Carrots,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "when  you 
were  busy  at  Miss  Floss's  drawer  to-day,  you  didn't 
open  mine,  did  you,  and  touch  anything  in  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Carrots,  at  once,  "  I'm  quite,  quite 
sure  I  didn't,  nursie." 

"  You're  sure  you  didn't  touch  nurse's  purse,  or 
a  little  tiny  packet  of  white  paper,  in  her  drawer  ?  " 
inquired  Floss,  with  an  instinct  that  the  circum- 
stantial details  might  possibly  recall  some  forgotten 
remembrance  to  his  mind. 

"  Quite  sure,"  said  Carrots,  looking  straight  up  in 
their  faces  with  a  thoughtful,  but  not  uncertain  ex- 
pression in  his  brown  eyes. 

"Because  nurse  has  lost  something  out  of  her 
drawer,  you  see,  Carrots  dear,  and  she  is  very  sorry 
about  it,"  continued  Floss. 

"What  has  she  lost?  But  I'm  sure"  repeated 
Carrots,  "  I  didn't  touch  nurse's  drawer,  nor  nuckeii 
in  it.  What  has  nurse  lost  ?  " 

"A  half-sovereign  — "  began  Floss,  but  nurse 
interrupted  her. 


THE  LOST   HALF-SOVEREIGN.  37 

"Don't  tease  him  any  more  about  it,"  she  said; 
"  it's  plain  he  doesn't  know,  and  I  wouldn't  like  the 
other  servants  to  hear.  Just  forget  about  it,  Master 
Carrots,  my  dear,  perhaps  nurse  will  find  it  some 
day." 

So  Carrots,  literally  obedient,  asked  no  more 
questions.  He  only  said-  to  himself,  with  a  puzzled 
look  on  his  face,  "  A  half-sovereign !  I  didn't  know 
nurse  had  any  sovereigns  —  I  thought  only  Floss 
had  —  and  I  never  saw  any  broken  in  halfs  ! " 

But  as  no  more  was  said  in  his  hearing  about  the 
matter,  it  passed  from  his  innocent  mind. 

Nurse  thought  it  right  to  tell  the  children's 
mother  of  her  loss,  and  the  girls  and  Maurice  heard 
of  it  too.  They  all  were  very  sorry  for  nurse,  for 
she  took  her  own  carelessness  rather  sorely  to  heart. 
But  by  her  wish,  nothing  was  said  of  it  to  the  two 
other  servants,  one  of  whom  had  only  lately  come, 
though  the  other  had  been  with  them  many  years. 

"I'd  rather  by  far  bear  the  loss,"  said  nurse,  "than 
cause  any  ill-feeling  about  it,  ma'am." 

And  her  mistress  gave  in  to  her.  "  Though 
certainly  you  must  not  bear  the  loss,  nurse,"  she 
said,  kindly;  ""for  in  all  these  years  you  have  saved 
me  too  many  half-sovereigns  and  whole  ones  too  for 
me  to  mind  much  about  the  loss  of  one.  And 
you've  asked  Carrots,  you  say ;  you're  sure  he  knows 
nothing  about  it?" 

"  Quite  sure,  ma'am,"  said  nurse,  unhesitatingly. 


38  « CARKOTS." 

And  several  days  went  on,  and  nothing  more  was 
said  or  heard  about  the  half-sovereign.  Only  all 
this  time  the  little  yellow  sixpenny  lay  safely  hidden 
away  in  Carrots'  paint-box. 

In  a  sense  he  had  forgotten  about  it.  He  knew 
it  was  safe  there,  and  he  had  almost  fixed  in  his 
mind  not  to  tell  Floss  about  it  till  the  day  they 
should  be  going  to  the  toy-shop  to  buy  their  hoops. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  showing 
it  to  her,  but  had  stopped  short,  thinking  how  much 
more  delightful  it  would  be  to  "surprise"  her.  He 
had  quite  left  off  puzzling  his  head  as  to  where  the 
little  coin  had  come  from;  he  had  found  it  in 
Floss's  drawer,  that  was  quite  enough.  If  he  had 
any  thoughts  about  its  history,  they  were  that 
either  Floss  had  had  "  the  sixpenny "  a  long  time 
ago  and  had  forgotten  it,  or  that  the  fairies  had 
brought  it;  and  on  the  whole  he  inclined  to  the 
latter  explanation,  for  you  see  there  was  something 
different  about  this  sixpenny  to  any  he  had  ever 
seen  before. 

Very  likely  "fairies'  sixpennies"  are  always  that 
pretty  yellow  colour,  he  thought. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  the  loss  of  the 
half-sovereign,  Maurice  happened  to  come  into  the 
nursery  just  at  the  little  ones'  tea-time.  It  was  a 
half-holiday,  and  he  had  been  out  a  long  walk  with 
some  of  his  companions,  for  he  still  went  to  school  at 
Sandyshore,  and  now  he  had  come  in  tremendously 
hungry  and  thirsty. 


THE  LOST   HALF-SOVEREIGN.  39 

"I  say,  nurse,"  he  exclaimed,  seating  himself 
unceremoniously  at  the  table,  "  I'm  awfully  hungry, 
and  mamma's  out,  and  we  shan't  have  tea  for  two 
hours  yet.  And  Carrots,  young  man,  I  want  your 
paint-box ;  mine's  all  gone  to  smash,  and  Cecil  won't 
lend  me  hers,  and  I  want  to  paint  flags  with  stars 
and  stripes  for  my  new  boat." 

"  Tars  and  tipes,"  repeated  Carrots,  "  what's  tars 
and  tipes  ?  " 

"What's  that  to  you?"  replied  Mott,  politely. 
"  Bless  me,  I  am  so  thirsty.  Give  me  your  tea, 
Carrots,  and  nurse  will  make  you  some  more.  What 
awful  weak  stuff !  But  I'm  too  thirsty  to  wait." 

He  seized  Carrots'  mug  and  drank  off  its  contents 
at  one  draught.  But  when  he  put  the  mug  down 
he  made  a  very  wry  face. 

"  What  horrible  stuff !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Nurse, 
you've  forgotten  to  put  in  any  sugar." 

"  No,  she  hasn't,"  said  Carrots,  bluntly. 

Nurse  smiled,  but  said  nothing,  and  Floss  looked 
fidgety. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Mott.  "Don't  you 
like  sugar  —  eh,  young  'un  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  like  it,"  replied  Carrots,  but  he  would 
say  no  more. 

Floss  grew  more  and  more  uneasy. 

"  Oh,  Mott,"  she  burst  out,  "  please  don't  tease 
Carrots.  It's  nothing  wrong;  it's  only  something 
we've  planned  ourselves." 


40  "  CARROTS." 

Mott's  curiosity  was  by  this  time  thoroughly 
aroused. 

"A  secret,  is  it?"  he  exclaimed,  pricking  up  his 
ears  ;  "  you'd  best  tell  it  me.  I'm  a  duffer  at  keeping 
secrets.  Out  with  it." 

Floss  looked  ready  to  cry,  and  Carrots  shut  his 
mouth  tight,  as  if  determined  not  to  give  in.  Nurse 
thought  it  time  to  interfere. 

"  Master  Maurice,"  she  said,  appealingly,  "  don't 
tease  the  poor  little  things,  there's  a  good  boy.  If 
it  -  is  a  secret,  there's  no  harm  in  it,  you  may  be 
sure." 

"  Tease  !  "  repeated  Mott,  virtuously,  "  I'm  not 
teasing.  I  only  want  to  know  what  the  mystery  is 
—  why  shouldn't  I  ?  I  won't  interfere." 

Now  Mott  was  just  at  the  age  when  the  spirit  of 
mischief  is  most  apt  to  get  thorough  hold  of  a  boy ; 
and  once  this  is  the  case,  who  can  say  where  or  at 
what  a  boy  will  stop  ?  Every  opposition  or  contra- 
diction only  adds  fuel  to  the  flames,  and  not  seldom 
a  tiny  spark  may  thus  end  in  a  great  fire.  Nurse 
knew  something  of  boys  in  general,  and  of  Mott  in 
particular ;  and  knowing  what  she  did,  she  decided 
in  her  own  mind  that  she  had  better  take  the  bull  by 
the  horns  without  delay. 

"  Miss  Floss,"  she  said  seriously,  "  and  Master 
Carrots,  I  think  you  had  better  tell  your  brother 
your  secret.  He'll  be  very  kind  about  it,  you'll  see, 
and  he  won't  tell  anybody." 


THE  LOST   HALF-SOVEREIGN.  41 

"  Won't  you,  Mott  ?"  said  Floss,  jumping  up  and 
down  on  her  chair  in  her  anxiety.  "  Promise." 

"  Honour  bright,"  said  Mott. 

Carrots  opened  his  mouth  as  if  about  to  speak,  but 
shut  it  down  again. 

"  What  were  you  going  to  say  ?  "  said  Mott. 

"  Nucken,"  replied  Carrots. 

"  People  don't  open  their  mouths  like  that,  if 
they've  c  nucken '  to  say,"  said  Mott,  as  if  he  didn't 
believe  Carrots. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that  I  wasn't  going  to  say  nucken," 
said  Carrots,  "  I  mean  I  haven't  nucken  to  say  now." 

"  And  what  were  you  going  to  say  ? "  persisted 
Mott. 

Carrots  looked  frightened. 

"  I  was  only  sinking  if  you  knowed,  and  nurse 
knowed,  and  Floss  knowed,  and  I  knowed,  it  wouldn't 
be  a  secret." 

Mott  burst  out  laughing. 

"  What  a  precious  goose  you  are,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  Well,  secret  or  no  secret,  I'm  going  to  hear  it ;  so 
tell  me." 

Floss  looked  at  nurse  despairingly. 

"  You  tell,  nurse,  please,"  she  said. 

So  nurse  told,  and  Maurice  looked  more  amused 
than  ever.  "  What  an  idea  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
don't  believe  Carrots'll  hold  out  for  a  month,  what- 
ever Floss  may  do,  unless  he  has  a  precious  lump 
of  ac  —  ac  —  what  is  it  the  head  people  call  it?  — 


42 

acquisitiveness  for  his  age.  But  you  needn't  have 
made  such  a  fuss  about  your  precious  secret.  Here, 
nurse,  give  us  some  tea,  and  you  may  put  in  all  the 
sugar  Floss  and  Carrots  have  saved  by  now." 

Floss  and  Carrots  looked  ready  to  cry,  but  nurse 
reassured  them. 

"  Never  you  fear,"  she  said ;  "  he  shall  have  what's 
proper,  but  no  more.  Never  was  such  a  boy  for  sweet 
things  as  you,  Master  Mott." 

"  It  shows  in  my  temper,  doesn't  it  ? "  he  said 
saucily.  And  then  he  was  so  pleased  with  his  own 
wit  that  for  a  few  minutes  he  forgot  to  tease, 
occupying  himself  by  eating  lots  of  bread  and 
butter  instead,  so  that  tea  went  on  peaceably. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CARROTS   IN   TROUBLE. 

"But  bitter  while  they  flow,  are  childish  tears." 

"Now  Carrots,"  said  Mott,  when  he  had  eaten 
what  he  considered  might  possibly  support  him  for 
the  next  two  hours,  "now  Carrots,  let's  have  the 
paint-box.  You  needn't  disturb  yourself,"  he  con- 
tinued, for  Carrots  was  preparing  to  descend  from 
his  high  chair,  "  I  know  where  you  keep  it ;  it's  in 
your  drawer,  isn't  it  ?  Which  is  his  drawer,  nurse  ? 
It'll  be  a  good  opportunity  for  me  to  see  if  he 
keeps  it  tidy." 

"  No,  no,  let  me  get  it  myself,"  cried  Carrots, 
tumbling  himself  off  his  chair  anyhow  in  his  eager- 
ness. "  Nurse,  nurse,  don't  tell  him  which  is  mine ; 
don't  let  him  take  my  paint-box,  let  me  get  it  my 
own  self." 

Nurse  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise ;  it  was 
seldom  the  little  boy  so  excited  himself. 

"  Master  Mott  won't  hurt  your  drawer,  my  dear," 
she  said;  "you  don't  mind  his  having  your  paint- 
box, I'm  sure.  But  do  let  him  get  it  out  himself,  if 
he  wants,  Master  Maurice,  there's  a  dear  boy,"  she 

43 


44 

continued,  for  Maurice  was  by  this  time  ferreting  in 
Floss's  drawer  with  great  gusto,  and  in  another 
moment  would  have  been  at  Carrots' !  But  Carrots 
was  at  it  before  him.  He  pulled  it  open  as  far  as 
he  could,  for  in  consequence  of  Mott's  investigations 
in  the  upper  story,  he  could  not  easily  penetrate  to 
his  own  quarters.  But  he  knew  exactly  where  the 
paint-box  lay,  and  managed  to  slip  it  out,  without 
Maurice's  noticing  what  he  was  doing.  His  triumph 
was  short-lived,  however ;  before  he  could  open  the 
box,  Mott  was  after  him. 

"  Hi,  you  young  sneak  !  "  he  cried,  "  what  are  you 
after  now  ?  Give  me  the  box ;  I  believe  you  want 
to  take  the  best  paints  out  before  you  lend  it  to 
me,"  and  he  wrenched  the  paint-box  out  of  his  little 
brother's  hands. 

"  I  don't,  I  don't,"  sobbed  Carrots,  sitting  down  on 
the  floor  and  crying  bitterly ;  "  you  may  have  all  the 
paints,  Mott,  but  it's  my  secret,  oh,  my  secret ! " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  said  Mott,  roughly, 
pulling  out  the  lid  as  he  spoke.  The  box  had  been  all 
tumbled  about  in  the  struggle,  and  the  paints  came 
rattling  out,  the  paints  and  the  brushes,  and  the  little 
saucers,  and  with  them  came  rolling  down  on  to  the 
floor,  children,  you  know  what  —  the  "  fairies'  six- 
penny," the  little  bright  shining  yellow  half-sover- 
eign! 

A  strange  change  came  over  Mott's  face. 

"Nurse,"  he  cried,  "do  you  see  that?  What  does 
that  mean  ?  " 


CARROTS  IN  TROUBLE.  45 

Nurse  hastened  up  to  where  he  was  standing ;  she 
stared  for  a  moment  in  puzzled  astonishment  at  the 
spot  on  the  carpet  to  which  the  toe  of  Maurice's 
boot  was  pointing,  then  she  stooped  down  slowly  and 
picked  up  the  coin,  still  without  speaking. 

"  Well,  nurse,"  said  Maurice,  impatiently,  "  what 
do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"My  half-sovereign,"  said  nurse,  as  if  hardly  be- 
lieving what  she  saw. 

"  Of  course  it's  your  half-sovereign,"  said  Mott, 
"  it's  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff.  But  how  did  it  come 
there,  that's  the  question  ?  " 

Nurse  looked  at  Carrots  with  puzzled  perplexity. 
"  He  couldn't  have  known,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
too  low  for  Carrots  to  hear.  He  was  still  sitting  on 
the  floor  sobbing,  and  through  his  sobs  was  to  be 
heard  now  and  then  the  melancholy  cry,  "  My  secret, 
oh,  my  poor  secret." 

"  You  hear  what  he  says,"  said  Maurice ;  "  what 
does  his  'secret'  mean  but  that 'he  sneaked  into 
your  drawer  and  took  the  half-sovereign,  and  now 
doesn't  like  being  found  out.  I'm  ashamed  to  have 
him  for  my  brother,  that  I  am,  the  little  cad !  " 

"  But  he  couldn't  have  understood,"  said  nurse,  at 
a  loss  how  otherwise  to  defend  her  little  boy.  "  I'm 
not  even  sure  that  he  rightly  knew  of  my  losing  it, 
and  he  might  have  taken  it,  meaning  no  harm,  not 
knowing  what  it  was,  indeed,  very  likely." 

"  Rubbish,"  said  Maurice.     "  A  child  that  is  going 


46 

without  sugar  to  get  money  instead,  must  be  old 
enough  to  understand  something  about  what  money 
is." 

"  But  that  was  my  plan ;  it  wasn't  Carrots  that 
thought  of  it  at  all,"  said  Floss,  who  all  this  time 
had  stood  by,  frightened  and  distressed,  not  knowing 
what  to  say. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Floss,"  said  Maurice,  roughly ; 
and  Floss  subsided.  "  Carrots,"  he  continued,  turn- 
ing to  his  brother,  "  leave  off  crying  this  minute,  and 
listen  to  me.  Who  put  this  piece  of  money  into 
your  paint-box  ?  " 

"  I  did  my  own  self,"  said  Carrots. 

"What  for?" 

"  To  keep  it  a  secret  for  Floss,"  sobbed  Carrots. 

Maurice  turned  triumphantly  to  nurse. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  you  see  !  And,"  he  continued 
to  Carrots  again,  "  you  took  it  out  of  nurse's  drawer 
—  out  of  a  little  paper  packet  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Carrots,  "I  didn't.  I  didn't  know  it 
was  nurse's." 

"  You  didn't  know  nurse  had  lost  a  half-sover- 
eign !  "  exclaimed  Mott,  "Carrots,  how  dare  you  say 
so?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Carrots,  looking  so  puzzled,  that  for 
a  moment  or  two  he  forgot  to  sob,  "  I  did  know ; 
Floss  told  me." 

"  Then  how  can  you  say  you  didn't  know  this  was 
nurse's  ?  "  said  Mott. 


CAKKOTS   IN   TROUBLE.  47 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  —  I  didn't  know — I  can't 
under'tand,"  cried  Carrots,  relapsing  into  fresh  sobs. 

"  I  wish  your  mamma  were  in,  that  I  do,"  said 
nurse,  looking  ready  to  cry  too ;  by  this  time  Floss's 
tears  were  flowing  freely. 

"  She  isn't  in,  so  it's  no  good  wishing  she  were," 
said  Maurice ;  "  but  papa  is,"  he  went  on  impor- 
tantly, "and  I'll  just  take  Carrots  to  him  and  see 
what  he9 II  say  to  all  this." 

"  Oh,  no,  Master  Mott,  don't  do  that,  I  beg  and 
pray  of  you,"  said  nurse,  all  but  wringing  her  hands 
in  entreaty.  "  Your  papa  doesn't  understand  about 
the  little  ones ;  do  wait  till  your  mamma  comes  in." 

"  No,  indeed,  nurse ;  it's  a  thing  papa  should  be 
told,"  said  Mott,  in  his  innermost  heart  half  inclined 
to  yield,  but  working  himself  up  to  imagine  he  was 
acting  very  heroically.  And  notwithstanding  nurse's 
distress,  and  Floss's  tears,  off  he  marched  his  unfor- 
tunate little  brother  to  the  study. 

"Papa,"  he  said,  knocking  at  the  door,  "may  I 
come  in?  There's  something  I  must  speak  to  you 
about  immediately." 

"  Come  in,  then,"  was  the  reply.  "  Well,  and 
what's  the  matter  now  ?  Has  Carrots  hurt  himself  ?  " 
asked  his  father,  naturally  enough,  for  his  red-haired 
little  son  looked  pitiable  in  the  extreme  as  he  crept 
into  the  room  after  Maurice,  frightened,  bewildered, 
and,  so  far  as  his  gentle  disposition  was  capable  of 
such  a  feeling,  indignant  also,  all  at  once. 


48 

"  No,"  replied  Maurice,  pushing  Carrots  forward, 
"he's  not  hurt  himself;  it's  worse  than  that. 
Papa,"  he  continued  excitedly,  "you  whipped  me 
once,  when  I  was  a  little  fellow,  for  telling  a  story. 
I  am  very  sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  I  think  it's 
right  you  should  know ;  I  am  afraid  you  will  have 
to  punish  Carrots  more  severely  than  you  punished 
me,  for  he's  done  worse  than  tell  a  story."  Maurice 
stopped  to  take  breath,  and  looked  at  his  father  to 
see  the  effect  of  his  words.  Carrots  had  stopped 
crying  to  listen  to  what  Maurice  was  saying,  and 
there  he  stood,  staring  up  with  his  large  brown  eyes, 
two  or  three  tears  still  struggling  down  his  cheeks, 
his  face  smeared  and  red  and  looking  very  miserable. 
Yet  he  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the  least  ashamed  of 
himself,  and  this  somehow  provoked  Mott  and  hard- 
ened him  against  him. 

"  What's  he  been  doing  ?  "  said  their  father,  look- 
ing at  the  two  boys  with  more  amusement  than 
anxiety,  and  then  glancing  regretfully  at  the  news- 
paper which  he  had  been  comfortably  reading  when 
Mott's  knock  came  to  the  door. 

"  He's  done  much  worse  than  tell  a  story,"  repeated 
Maurice,  "though  for  that  matter  he's  told  two  or 
three  stories  too.  But,  papa,  you  know  about  nurse 
losing  a  half-sovereign?  Well,  Carrots  had  got  it 
all  the  time ;  he  took  it  out  of  nurse's  purse,  and  hid 
it  away  in  his  paint-box,  without  telling  anybody. 
He  can't  deny  it,  though  he  tried  to." 


CAKROTS   IN   TROUBLE.  49 

"  Carrots,"  said  his  father  sternly,  "  is  this  true  ?  " 

Carrots  looked  up  in  his  father's  face ;  that  face, 
generally  so  kind  and  merry,  was  now  all  gloom  and 
displeasure  —  why  ?  —  Carrots  could  not  understand, 
and  he  was  too  frightened  and  miserable  to  collect 
his  little  wits  together  to  try  to  do  so.  He  just  gave 
a  sort  of  little  tremble  and  began  to  cry  again. 

"  Carrots,"  repeated  his  father,  "  is  this  true  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  sobbed  Carrots. 

Now  Captain  Desart,  Carrots'  father,  was,  as  I 
think  I  have  told  you,  a  sailor.  If  any  of  you 
children  have  a  sailor  for  your  father,  you  must  not 
think  I  mean  to  teach  you  to  be  disrespectful  when 
I  say  that  sailors  are,  there  is  no  doubt,  inclined  to 
be  hot-tempered  and  hasty.  And  I  do  not  think  on 
the  whole  that  they  understand  much  about  children, 
though  they  are  often  very  fond  of  them  and  very 
kind.  All  this  was  the  case  with  Carrots'  father. 
He  had  been  so  much  away  from  his  children  while 
they  were  little,  that  he  really  hardly  knew  how 
they  had  been  brought  up  or  trained  or  anything 
about  their  childish  ways  —  he  had  left  them  entirely 
to  his  wife,  and  scarcely  considered  them  as  in  any 
way  "  his  business,"  till  they  were  quite  big  boys  and 
girls. 

But  once  he  did  begin  to  notice  them,  though 
Very  kind,  he  was  very  strict.  He  had  most 
decided  opinions  about  the  only  way  of  checking 
their  faults  whenever  these  were  serious  enough  to 


50 

attract  his  attention,  and  he  could  not  and  would 
not  be  troubled  with  arguing,  or  what  he  called 
"splitting  hairs,"  about  such  matters.  A  fault  was 
a  fault ;  telling  a  falsehood  was  telling  a  falsehood ; 
and  he  made  no  allowance  for  the  excuses  or  "pal- 
liating circumstances "  there  might  be  to  consider. 
One  child,  according  to  his  ideas,  was  to  be  treated 
exactly  like  another ;  why  the  same  offence  should 
deserve  severer  punishment  with  a  self-willed,  self- 
confident,  bold,  matter-of-fact  lad,  such  as  Maurice, 
than  with  a  timid,  fanciful,  baby-like  creature  as  was 
his  little  Fabian,  he  could  not  have  understood  had 
he  tried. 

Nurse  knew  all  this  by  long  experience ;  no 
wonder,  kind  though  she  knew  her  master  to  be, 
that  she  trembled  when  Mott  announced  his  intention 
of  laying  the  whole  affair  before  his  father. 

But  poor  Carrots  did  not  know  anything  about 
it.  "  Papa  "  had  never  been  "  cross  "  to  him  before, 
and  he  was  far  from  clearly  understanding  why  he 
was  "  cross "  to  him  now.  So  he  just  sobbed  and 
said  "  I  don't  know,"  which  was  about  the  worst 
thing  he  could  possibly  have  said  in  his  own  defence, 
though  literally  the  truth. 

"No  or  yes,  sir,"  said  Captain  Desart,  his  voice 
growing  louder  and  sterner — I  think  he  really  for- 
got that  it  was  a  poor  little  shrimp  of  six  years 
old  he  was  speaking  to  — "  no  nonsense  of  '  don't 
knows.'  Did  you  or  did  you  not  take  nurse's  half- 


CARROTS   IN   TROUBLE.  51 

sovereign  out  of  her  drawer  and  keep  it  for  your 
own?" 

"  No,"  said  Carrots,  "  I  never  took  nucken  out  of 
nurse's  drawer.  I  never  did,  papa,  and  I  didn't  know 
nurse  had  any  sovereigns." 

"  Didn't  you  know  nurse  had  lost  a  half-sovereign  ? 
Carrots,  how  can  you  say  so?"  interrupted  Mott. 

"  Yes,  Floss  told  me,"  said  Carrots. 

"  And  Floss  hid  it  away  in  your  paint-box,  I  sup- 
pose ?  "  said  Mott,  sarcastically. 

"  No,  Floss  didn't.  I  hided  the  sixpenny  my  own 
self,"  said  Carrots,  looking  more  and  more  puzzled. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Maurice,"  said  his  father, 
angrily.  "  Go  and  fetch  the  money  and  the  torn-fool 
paint-box  thing  that  you  say  he  had  it  in." 

Mott  did  as  he  was  told.  He  ran  to  the  nursery 
and  back  as  fast  as  he  could;  but,  unobserved  by 
him,  Floss  managed  to  run  after  him  and  crept  into 
the  study  so  quietly  that  her  father  never  noticed  her. 

Maurice  laid  the  old  paint-box  and  the  half-sover- 
eign down  on  the  table  in  front  of  his  father ;  Captain 
Desart  held  up  the  little  coin  between  his  finger  and 
thumb. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  Carrots,  look  at  this.  Did  you 
or  did  you  not  take  this  piece  of  money  out  of 
nurse's  drawer  and  hide  it  away  in  your  paint-box?" 

Carrots  stared  hard  at  the  half-sovereign. 

"  I  did  put  it  in  my  paint-box,"  he  said,  and  then 
he  stopped. 


52 

"  What  for?"  said  his  father. 

"  I  wanted  to  keep  it  for  a  secret,"  he  replied.  "  I 
wanted  to  —  to  —  " 

"  What?"  thundered  Captain  Desart. 

"  To  buy  something  at  the  toy-shop  with  it," 
sobbed  Carrots. 

Captain  Desart  sat  down  and  looked  at  Mott  for 
sympathy. 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  he  said,  "  one  could  hardly 
believe  it.  A  child  that  one  would  think  scarcely 
knew  the  value  of  money !  Where  can  he  have 
learnt  such  cunning ;  you  say  you  are  sure  he  was 
told  of  nurse's  having  lost  a  half-sovereign  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Mott ;  "  he  confesses  to  that  much 
himself." 

"  Floss  told  me,"  said  Carrots. 

"Then  how  can  you  pretend  you  didn't  know  this 
was  nurse's  —  taking  it  out  of  her  drawer,  too,"  said 
his  father. 

"I  don't  know.  I  didn't  take  it  out  of  her 
drawer;  it  was  'aside  Floss's  doll,"  said  Carrots. 

"  He's  trying  to  equivocate,"  said  his  father. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  child  again,  looking  more 
determined  than  ever. 

"  Carrots,"  he  said,  "  I  must  whip  you  for  this. 
Do  you  know  that  I  am  ashamed  to  think  you  are 
my  son  ?  If  you  were  a  poor  boy  you  might  be  put 
in  prison  for  this." 

Carrots  looked  too  bewildered  to  understand.    "  In 


CARROTS   IN   TROUBLE.  53 

prison,"  he  repeated.  "  Would  the  prison-man  take 
me?" 

"  What  does  he  mean  ?  "  said  Captain  Desart. 

Floss,  who  had  been  waiting  unobserved  in  her 
corner  all  this  time,  thought  this  a  good  opportunity 
for  coming  forward. 

"  He  means  the  policeman,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  papa," 
she  went  on,  running  up  to  her  little  brother  and 
throwing  her  arms  round  him,  the  tears  streaming 
down  her  face,  "  oh,  papa,  poor  little  Carrots  I  he 
doesn't  understand.". 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  ? "  said  her  father, 
gruffly  but  not  unkindly,  for  Floss  was  rather  a 
favourite  of  his.  "  What  do  you  mean  about  his  not 
understanding?  Did  you  know  about  this  business, 
Floss?" 

"  Oh  no,  papa,"  said  Floss,  her  face  flushing ; 
"  I'm  too  big  not  to  understand." 

"  Of  course  you  are,"  said  Captain  Desart ;  "  and 
Carrots  is  big  enough,  too,  to  understand  the  very 
plain  rule  that  he  is  not  to  touch  what  does  not 
belong  to  him.  He  was  told,  too,  that  nurse  had  lost 
a  half-sovereign,  and  he  might  then  have  owned  to 
having  taken  it  and  given  it  back,  and  then  things 
would  not  have  looked  so  bad.  Take  him  up  to  my 
dressing-room,  Maurice,  and  leave  him  there  till  I 
come." 

"May  I  go  with  him,  papa?"  said  Floss  very 
timidly. 


54 

"  No,"  said  her  father,  "  you  may  not." 

So  Mott  led  off  poor  weeping  Carrots,  and  all  the 
way  upstairs  he  kept  sobbing  to  himself,  "  I  never 
touched  nurse's  sovereigns.  I  never  did.  I  didn't 
know  she  had  any  sovereigns." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  said  Mott ;  "  what  is  the  use 
of  telling  more  stories  about  it  ?  " 

"I  didn't  tell  stories.  I  said  I  hided  the  sixpenny 
my  own  self,  but  I  never  touched  nurse's  sovereigns ; 
I  never  did." 

"  I  believe  you're  more  than  half  an  idiot,"  said 
Mott,  angry  and  yet  sorry  —  angry  with  himself,  too, 
somehow. 

Floss,  left  alone  with  her  father,  ventured  on 
another  appeal. 

"  You  won't  whip  Carrots  till  mamma  comes  in, 
will  you,  papa  ?  "  she  said  softly. 

"  Why  not  ?  Do  you  think  I  want  her  to  help  me 
to  whip  him  ?  "  said  Captain  Desart. 

"Oh  no — but  —  I  think  perhaps  mamma  would 
understand  better  how  it  was,  for,  oh  papa,  dear, 
Carrots  isn't  a  naughty  boy;  he  never,  never  tells 
stories." 

"  Well,  we'll  see,"  replied  her  father  ;  "  and  in  the 
meanwhile  it  will  do  him  no  harm  to  think  things 
over  by  himself  in  my  dressing-room  for  a  little." 

"  Oh,  poor  Carrots  I  "  murmured  Floss  to  herself ; 
"it'll  be  getting  dark,  and  he's  all  alone.  I  wish 
mamma  would  come  in  !  " 


FLOSS    TAPPED  AT  THE   DOOR.      "CARROTS,"   SHE   SAID,  "  ARE 
YOU  THERE?  "  —  p.  55. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

CARROTS   "ALL   ZIGHT "   AGAIN. 

"  When  next  the  summer  breeze  comes  by, 
And  waves  the  bush,  the  flower  is  dry." 

WALTER  SCOTT. 

FLOSS  crept  upstairs  to  the  dressing-room  door.  It 
was  locked.  Though  the  key  was  in  the  lock,  she 
knew  she  must  not  turn  it ;  and  even  had  it  been 
open  she  would  not  have  dared  to  go  in,  after  her 
father's  forbidding  it.  Bat  she  thought  she  might 
venture  to  speak  to  Carrots,  to  comfort  him  a  little, 
through  the  door.  She  was  dreadfully  afraid  that  he 
might  feel  frightened  in  there  alone  if  it  got  dark 
before  he  was  released,  for  sometimes  he  was  afraid 
of  the  dark  —  he  was  such  a  little  boy,  remember. 

Floss  tapped  at  the  door. 

"  Carrots,"  she  said,  "  are  you  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Carrots ;  "  but  you  can't  come  in, 
Floss.  Mott  has  locked  me  in." 

"  I  know,"  said  Floss ;  "  what  are  you  doing, 
Carrots.  Are  you  very  unhappy  ?  " 

"  Not  so   very.     I'm  crying  —  I'm  crying  a  great 
lot,  Floss,  but  I  don't  think  I'm  so  very  unhappy  - 
not  now  you've  come  to  the  door." 

"  Poor  Carrots,"  said  Floss,  "  I'll  stay  by  the  door, 

55 


56  "  CARROTS." 

if  you  like.  I'll  just  run  down  to  the  front  door 
now  and  then,  to  see  if  mamma  is  coming,  and  then 
I'll  come  straight  back  to  you." 

"  All  zight,"  said  Carrots.  Whenever  he  wanted 
to  seem  very  brave,  and  rather  a  big  boy,  he  used  to 
say  "  all  zight,"  and  just  now  he  was  trying  very 
hard  to  be  like  a  big  boy. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then 
Carrots  called  out  again. 

"  Floss,"  he  said,  "  are  you  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  replied  faithful  Floss. 

"  I  want  just  to  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  said.  "  Floss, 
I  never  did  touch  nurse's  sovereigns.  I  never  knowed 
she  had  any." 

"  It  wasn't  a  sovereign ;  it  was  a  A«(/*-sovereign," 
corrected  Floss. 

"  I  don't  under' tan  d  how  it  could  be  a  half- 
sovereign,"  said  Carrots.  "But  I  never  touched 
nurse's  drawer,  nor  nucken  in  it." 

"  Then  where  did  you  find  the  half-sovereign  ? " 
began  Floss,  "  and  why  —  oh,  Carrots,"  she  broke  off, 
"  I  do  believe  that's  the  front  door  bell.  It'll  be 
mamma  coming.  I  must  run  down." 

"  All  zight,"  called  out  Carrots  again.  "  Don't  be 
long,  Floss ;  but  please  tell  mamma  all  about  it.  I 
don't  under'tand." 

He  gave  a  little  sigh  of  perplexity,  and  lay  down 
on  the  floor  near  the  window,  where  the  room  was 
lightest,  for  the  darkness  was  now  beginning  to  creep 
in,  and  he  felt  very  lonely. 


AGAIN.  57 

Poor  Mrs.  Desart  hardly  knew  what  to  think  or 
say,  when,  almost  before  she  had  got  into  the  house, 
she  was  seized  upon  by  Maurice  and  Floss,  each  eager 
to  tell  their  own  story.  Carrots  naughty,  Carrots  in 
disgrace,  was  such  an  extraordinary  idea ! 

"  Nurse,"  she  exclaimed,  perceiving  her  at  the  end 
of  the  passage,  whence  she  had  been  watching  as 
anxiously  as  the  children  for  her  mistress's  return, 
" nurse,  what  is  the  meaning  of  it  all?" 

"Indeed,  ma'am,"  nurse  was  beginning,  but  she 
was  interrupted.  "  Come  in  here,  Lucy,"  said 
Captain  Desart  to  his  wife,  opening  the  study  door, 
"come  in  here  before  you  go  upstairs." 

And  Mrs.  Desart  did  as  he  asked,  but  Floss  again 
managed  to  creep  in  too,  almost  hidden  in  the  folds 
of  her  mother's  dress. 

"  I  can't  believe  that  Carrots  is  greedy,  or  cunning, 
or  obstinate,"  said  his  mother,  when  she  had  heard 
all.  "I  cannot  think  that  he  understood  what  he 
was  doing  when  he  took  the  half-sovereign." 

"But  the  hiding  it,"  said  Captain  Desart,  "the 
hiding  it,  and  yet  to  my  face  persisting  that  he  had 
never  touched  nurse's  half-sovereign.  I  can't  make 
the  child  out." 

"He  says  he  didn't  know  nurse  had  any  sover- 
eigns," put  in  Floss. 

"Are  you  there  again,  you  ubiquitous  child?" 
said  her  father. 

Floss  looked  rather  frightened  —  such  a  long  word 


58 

as  ubiquitous  must  surely  mean  something  very 
naughty ;  but  her  father's  voice  was  not  angry,  so  she 
took  courage. 

"  Does  he  know  what  a  sovereign  means  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Desart.  "  Perhaps  there  is  some  confusion  in 
his  mind  which  makes  him  seem  obstinate  when  he 
isn't  so  really." 

"  He  said  he  knew  /  had  sovereigns,"  said  Floss, 
"and  I  couldn't  think  what  he  meant.  Oh,  mamma," 
she  went  on  suddenly,  "  I  do  believe  I  know  what  he 
was  thinking  of.  It  was  my  kings  and  queens." 

And  before  her  father  or  mother  could  stop  her, 
she  had  darted  off  to  the  nursery.  In  two  minutes 
she  was  back  again,  holding  out  to  her  mother  a 
round  wooden  box  — the  sort  of  box  one  often  used 
to  see  with  picture  alphabets  for  little  children,  but 
instead  of  an  alphabet,  Floss's  box  contained  a  set  of 
round  cards,  each  about  the  size  of  the  top  of  a  wine- 
glass, with  the  heads  of  all  the  English  kings  and 
queens,  from  William  the  Conqueror  down  to 
Victoria ! 

" '  Sovereigns  of  England,'  mamma,  you  see,"  she 
exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  words  on  the  lid,  and 
quite  out  of  breath  with  hurry  and  excitement, 
"  and  I  very  often  call  them  my  sovereigns ;  and  of 
course  Carrots  didn't  understand  how  there  could 
be  a  half  one  of  them,  nor  how  nurse  could  have  any." 

"  It  must  be  so,"  said  Mrs.  Desart  to  her  husband ; 
"  the  poor  child  really  did  not  understand." 


CARROTS    "ALL   ZIGHT  "    AGAIN.  59 

"  But  still  the  taking  the  money  at  all,  and  hiding 
it?"  said  Captain  Desart.  "I  don't  see  that  it  would 
be  right  not  to  punish  him." 

"He  has  been  punished  already — pretty  severely 
for  him,  I  fancy,"  said  Floss's  mother,  with  a  rather 
sad  smile.  "  You  Avill  leave  him  to  me  now,  won't 
you,  Frank  ?  "  she  asked  her  husband.  "  I  will  go 
up  and  see  him,  and  try  to  make  him  thoroughly 
understand.  Give  me  the  sovereigns,  Floss  dear,  I'll 
take  them  with  me." 

Somewhat  slowly,  Carrots'  mother  made  her  way 
upstairs.  She  was  tired  and  rather  troubled.  She 
did  not  believe  that  her  poor  little  boy  had  really 
done  wrong  wilfully,  but  it  seemed  difficult  to  man- 
age well  among  so  many  children  ;  she  was  grieved, 
also,  at  Maurice's  hastiness  and  want  of  tender  feel- 
ing, and  she  saw,  too,  how  little  fitted  Carrots  was  to 
make  his  way  in  this  rough-and-ready  world. 

"  How  would  it  be  without  me !  My  poor  chil- 
dren," she  thought  with  a  sigh. 

But  a  little  hand  was  slipped  into  hers. 

"Mamma,  dear,  I'm  so  glad  you  thought  of  the 
sovereigns.  I'm  sure  Carrots  didn't  mean  to  be 
naughty.  Mamma  dear,  though  he  is  so  little,  Car- 
rots always  means  to  be  good ;  I  don't  think  he  could 
even  be  frightened  into  doing  anything  that  he  un- 
derstood was  naughty,  though  he  is  so  easily  fright- 
ened other  ways." 

"My  good   little  Floss,  my  comforter,"    said   her 


60 

mother,  patting  Floss's  hand,  and  then  they  together 
made  their  way  to  the  dressing-room. 

It  was  almost  dark.  The  key  was  in  the  lock,  and 
Mrs.  Desart  felt  for  it  and  turned  it.  But  when  she 
opened  the  door  it  was  too  dark  in  the  room  to  dis- 
tinguish anything. 

"Carrots,"  she  said,  but  there  was  no  answer. 
"  Where  can  he  be  ? "  she  said  rather  anxiously. 
"Floss,  run  and  get  a  light." 

Floss  ran  off :  she  was  back  again  in  a  minute,  for 
she  had  met  nurse  on  the  stairs  with  a  candle  in  her 
hand.  But  even  with  the  light  they  could  not  all 
at  once  find  Carrots,  and  though  they  called  to  him 
there  was  no  answer. 

"  Can  he  have  got  out  of  the  window  ? "  Mrs. 
Desart  was  beginning  to  say,  when  Floss  interrupted 
her. 

"  Here  he  is,  mamma,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  poor 
little  Carrots !  mamma,  nursie,  do  look." 

There  he  was  indeed  —  fast,  fast  asleep  !  Extra 
fast  sleep,  for  his  troubles  and  his  tears  had  worn 
him  out.  He  was  lying  in  a  corner  of  a  large  closet 
opening  out  of  the  dressing-room.  In  this  closet 
Captain  Desart  hung  up  his  coats  and  dressing- 
gowns,  and  doubtless  Carrots  had  crept  into  it  when 
the  room  began  to  get  dark,  feeling  as  if  in  the 
hanging  garments  there  was  some  comfort  and  pro- 
tection ;  and  there  he  lay,  looking  so  fair  and  inno- 
cent, prettier  than  when  he  was  awake,  for  his 


CARROTS   "  ALL  ZIGHT  "   AGAIN.  61 

cheeks  had  more  colour,  and  his  long  eye-lashes, 
reddy-brown  like  his  hair,  showed  clearly  on  his  fair 
skin. 

"  Poor  little  fellow,  how  sweet  he  looks,"  said  Mrs. 
Desart.  "  Nurse,  lift  him  up  and  try  to  put  him  to 
bed  without  waking  him.  We  must  wait  to  dis- 
entangle the  confusion  in  his  mind  till  to-morrow 
morning." 

And  very  tenderly  nurse  lifted  him  up  and  carried 
him  off. 

"  My  bonnie  wee  man,"  she  murmured  ;  for  though 
it  was  many  and  many  a  day  since  she  had  seen  her 
native  land,  and  she  had  journeyed  with  her  master 
and  mistress  to  strange  countries  "  far  over  the  sea," 
she  was  apt  when  her  feelings  were  stirred  to  fall 
back  into  her  own  childish  tongue. 

So  no  more  was  said  to  or  about  Carrots  that  even- 
ing ;  but  Floss  went  to  bed  quite  happy  and  satisfied 
that  "mamma"  would  put  it  all  right  in  the  morning. 
I  don't  think  Mott  went  to  bed  in  so  comfortable  a 
mood ;  yet  his  mother  had  said  nothing  to  him  ! 

Cecil  and  Louise  had,  though.  Cecil  told  him 
right  out  that  he  was  a  horrid  tell-tale,  and  Louise 
said  she  only  wished  he  had  red  hair  instead  of 
Carrots  ;  which  expressions  of  feeling  on  the  part  of 
such  very  grown-up  young  ladies  meant  a  good  deal, 
for  it  was  not  often  they  troubled  themselves  much 
about  nursery  matters.  Cecil,  that  is  to  say,  for 
Louise,  who  was  fair-haired  and  soft  and  gentle,  and 


62  "  CARROTS." 

played  very  nicely  on  the  piano,  was  just  a  shadow 
of  Cecil,  and  if  Cecil  had  proposed  that  they  should 
stay  in  bed  all  day  and  get  up  all  night,  would  have 
thought  it  a  very  good  idea ! 

And  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Desart  had  a  long  talk 
with  Carrots.  It  was  all  explained  and  made  clear, 
and  the  difference  between  the  two  kinds  of  "  sover- 
eigns "  shown  to  him.  And  he  told  his  mother  all  — 
all,  that  is  to  say,  except  the  "  plan "  for  saving 
sugar  and  getting  money  instead,  which  had  first  put 
it  into  his  head  to  keep  the  half-sovereign  to  get  a 
new  doll  for  Floss.  He  began  to  tell  about  the  plan, 
but  stopped  when  he  remembered  that  it  was  Floss's 
secret  as  well  as  his  own;  and  when  he  told  his 
mother  this,  she  said  he  was  quite  right  not  to  tell 
without  Floss's  leave,  and  that  as  nurse  knew  about 
it,  they  might  still  keep  it  for  their  secret,  if  they 
liked,  which  Carrots  was  very  glad  to  hear. 

He  told  his  mother  about  his  thinking  perhaps  the 
fairies  had  brought  the  "  sixpenny,"  and  she  explained 
to  him  that  now-a-days,  alas !  that  was  hardly  likely 
to  be  the  case,  though  she  seemed  quite  to  understand 
his  fancying  it,  and  did  not  laugh  at  him  at  all.  But 
she  spoke  very  gravely  to  him,  too,  about  never  tak- 
ing anything  that  was  not  his ;  and  after  listening 
and  thinking  with  all  his  might,  Carrots  said  he 
thought  he  "  kite  under'tood." 

"I  am  never,  never  to  take  nucken  that  I'm  not 
sure  is  mine,"  he  said  slowly.  "  And  if  ever  I'm  not 


CAKROTS    "ALL   ZIGHT  "   AGAIN.  63 

sure  I'm  to  ask  somebody,  you,  or  nursie,  or  Floss  — 
or  sometimes,  perhaps,  Cecil.  But  I  don't  think  I'd 
better  ask  Mott,  for  perhaps  he  wouldn't  under' tand." 
But  Mott's  mother  took  care  that  before  the  day 
was  over  Mott  should  "  under' tand"  something  of 
where  and  how  he  had  been  in  fault ;  that  there  are 
sometimes  ways  of  doing  right  which  turn  it  into 
"  wrong  "  ;  and  that  want  of  pity  and  tenderness  for 
the  wrong-doer  never,  never  can  be  right. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A   LONG  AGO   STORY. 

"  You  may  laugh,  my  little  people, 

But  be  sure  my  story's  true  ; 

For  I  vow  by  yon  church  steeple, 

I  was  once  a  child  like  you." 

THE  LAND  OP  LONG  AGO. 

IF  any  of  you  children  have  travelled  much,  have 
you  noticed  that  on  a  long  journey  there  seem  to 
come  points,  turns  —  I  hardly  know  what  to  call 
them  —  after  which  the  journey  seems  to  go  on 
differently.  More  quickly,  perhaps  more  cheerfully, 
or  possibly  less  so,  but  certainly  differently.  Looking 
back  afterwards  you  see  it  was  so  —  "  from  the  time 
we  all  looked  out  of  the  'window  at  the  ruined  abbey 
we  seemed  to  get  on  so  much  faster,"  you  would  say, 
or  —  "  after  the  steamer  had  passed  the  Spearhead 
Point,  we  began  to  feel  dull  and  tired,  and  there 
was  no  more  sunshine." 

I  think  it  is  so  in  life.  Suddenly,  often  quite 
unknowingly,  we  turn  a  corner  sometimes  of  our 
history,  sometimes  of  our  characters,  and  looking 
back,  long  afterwards,  we  make  a  date  of  that  point. 
It  was  so  just  now  with  my  little  Carrots.  This 
trouble  of  his  about  the  half-sovereign  changed  him. 

64 


A  LONG   AGO   STORY.  65 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  it  saddened  him  and  made 
him  less  happy  than  he  had  been  —  at  his  age,  thank 
God,  few,  if  any  children  have  it  in  them  to  be  so 
deeply  affected  —  but  it  changed  him.  It  was  his 
first  peep  out  into  life,  and  it  gave  him  his  first  real 
thoughts  about  things.  It  made  him  see  how  a  little 
wrong  doing  may  cause  great  sorrow ;  it  gave  him 
his  first  vague,  misty  glimpse  of  that,  to  my  think- 
ing, saddest  of  all  sad  things  —  the  way  in  which  it 
is  possible  for  our  very  nearest  and  dearest  to  mis- 
take and  misunderstand  us. 

He  had  been  in  some  ways  a  good  deal  of  a  baby 
for  his  age,  there  is  no  doubt.  He  had  a  queer,  baby- 
like  way  of  not  seeming  to  take  in  quickly  what 
was  said  to  him,  aiid  staring  up  in  your  face  with 
his  great  oxen-like  eyes,  that  did  a  little  excuse 
Maurice's  way  of  laughing  at  him  and  telling  him 
he  was  "  half-witted."  But  no  one  that  really  looked 
at  those  honest,  sensible,  tender  eyes  could  for  an 
instant  have  thought  there  was  any  "  want "  in  their 
owner.  It  was  all  there  —  the  root  of  all  goodness, 
cleverness,  and  manliness  —  just  as  in  the  acorn 
there  is  the  oak ;  but  of  course  it  had  a  great  deal  of 
groiving  before  it,  and,  more  than  mere  growing,  it 
would  need  all  the  care  and  watchful  tenderness  and 
wise  directing  that  could  be  given  it,  just  as  the 
acorn  needs  all  the  rain  and  sunshine  and  good  nour- 
ishing soil  it  can  get,  to  become  a  fine  oak,  straight 
and  strong  and  beautiful.  For  what  do  I  mean  by 


66  "  CARROTS." 

"it,"  children?  I  mean  the  "own  self"  of  Carrots, 
the  wonderful  "something"  in  the  little  childish 
frame  which  the  wisest  of  all  the  wise  men  of  either 
long  ago  or  now-a-days  have  never  yet  been  able  to 
describe — the  "soul,"  children,  which  is  in  you  all, 
which  may  grow  into  so  beautiful,  so  lovely  and  per- 
fect a  thing ;  which  may,  alas  !  be  twisted  and  stunted 
and  starved  out  of  all  likeness  to  the  "  image  "  in 
which  it  was  created. 

Do  you  understand  a  little  why  it  seems  some- 
times such  a  very,  very  solemn  thing  to  have  the 
charge  of  children?  When  one  thinks  what  they 
should  be,  and  again  when  one  thinks  what  they 
may  be,  is  it  not  a  solemn,  almost  too  solemn  a 
thought?  Only  we,  who  feel  this  so  deeply,  take 
heart  when  we  remember  that  the  Great  Gardener 
who  never  makes  mistakes  has  promised  to  help  us ; 
even  out  of  our  mistakes  to  bring  good. 

As  I  have  said,  the  affair  of  the  lost  half-sovereign 
did  not  leave  any  lastingly  painful  impression  on 
Carrots,  but  for  some  days  he  seemed  unusually 
quiet  and  pale  and  a  little  sad.  He  had  caught 
cold,  too,  with  falling  asleep  on  the  dressing-room 
floor,  nurse  said,  for  the  weather  was  still  exceed- 
ingly chilly,  though  the  spring  was  coming  on.  So 
altogether  he  was  rather  a  miserable  looking  little 
Carrots. 

He  kept  out  of  the  way  and  did  not  complain,  but 
"  mamma  "  and  nurse  and  Floss  did  not  need  com- 


A   LONG   AGO   STORY.  67 

plaints  to  make  them  see  that  their  little  man  was 
not  quite  himself,  and  they  were  extra  kind  to  him. 

There  came  just  then  some  very  dull  rainy  days, 
regular  rainy  days,  not  stormy,  but  to  the  children 
much  more  disagreeable  than  had  they  been  so. 
For  in  stormy  weather  at  the  seaside  there  is  too 
much  excitement  for  any  one  to  think  whether  it  is 
disagreeable  or  not  —  there  is  the  splendid  sight  of 
the  angry,  troubled  sea,  there  are  the  wonderful 
"  storm  songs  "  of  the  wind  to  listen  to.  Of  course, 
as  Carrots  used  to  say,  at  such  times  it  is  "  dedful " 
to  think  of  the  poor  sailors ;  but  even  in  thinking 
of  them  there  is  something  that  takes  one's  thoughts 
quite  away  from  one's  self,  and  one's  own  worries 
and  troubles  —  all  the  marvellous  stories  of  ship- 
wreck and  adventure,  from  Grace  Darling  to  old 
Sin  bad,  come  rushing  into  one's  mind,  and  one  feels 
as  if  the  sea  were  the  only  part  of  the  world  worth 
living  on. 

But  even  at  the  seaside,  regular,  steady,  "  stupid  " 
rainy  days  are  trying.  Carrots  sat  at  the  nursery 
window  one  of  these  dull  afternoons  looking  out 
wistfully. 

"  Floss,"  he  said,  for  Floss  was  sitting  on  the  floor 
learning  her  geography  for  the  next  day,  "Floss,  it 
is  so  raining." 

"I  know,"  said  Floss,  stopping  a  minute  in  her 
"  principal  rivers  of  northern  Europe."  "  I  wish 
there  wasn't  so  much  rain,  and  then  there  wouldn't 


68  "CARROTS." 

be  so  many  rivers;  or  perhaps  if  there  weren't  so 
many  rivers  there  wouldn't  be  so  much  rain.  I 
wonder  which  it  is  !  " 

"  Which  beginned  first  —  rivers  or  rain  ?  "  said 
Carrots,  meditatively,  "  that  would  tell." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  believe  any- 
body does,"  said  Floss,  going  on  again  with  her 
lesson.  "  Be  quiet,  Carrots,  for  one  minute,  and 
then  I'll  talk  to  you." 

Carrots  sat  silent  for  about  a  minute  and  a  half ; 
then  he  began  again. 

"  Floss,"  he  said. 

"  Well,"  replied  Floss,  "  I've  very  nearly  done, 
Carrots." 

"  It's  werry  dull  to-day,  Floss ;  the  sea  looks  dull 
too,  it  isn't  dancey  a  bit  to-day,  and  the  sands  look 
as  if  they  would  never  be  nice  for  running  on 
again." 

"  Oh,  but  they  will,  Master  Carrots,"  said  nurse, 
who  was  sitting  near,  busy  darning  stockings. 
"  Dear,  dear !  don't  I  remember  feeling  just  so 
when  I  was  a  child?  In  winter  thinking  summer 
would  never  come,  and  in  summer  forgetting  all 
about  winter ! " 

"  Is  it  a  werry  long  time  since  you  were  a  child  ?  " 
inquired  Carrots,  directing  his  attention  to  nurse. 

"  It's  getting  on  for  a  good  long  time,  my  dear," 
said  nurse,  with  a  smile. 

"  Please  tell  me  about  it,"  said  Carrots. 


A  LONG  AGO   STORY.  69 

"  Oh  yes,  nursie  dear,  do,"  said  Floss,  jumping  up 
from  the  floor  and  shutting  her  book.  "  I've  done 
all  my  lessons,  and  it  would  just  be  nice  to  have 
a  story.  It  would  amuse  poor  little  Carrots." 

"  But  you  know  all  my  stories  as  well,  or  even 
better,  than  I  do  myself,"  objected  nurse,  "not  that 
they  were  ever  much  to  tell,  any  of  them." 

"  Oh  yes,  they  were.  They  are  very  nice  stories 
indeed,"  said  Floss,  encouragingly.  "  And  I'm  very 
fond  of  what  you  call  your  mother's  stories,  too  — 
aren't  you,  Carrots  ?  —  about  the  children  she  was 
nurse  to  —  Master  Hugh  and  Miss  Janet.  Tell  us 
more  about  them,  nursie." 

"  You've  heard  all  the  stories  about  them,  my 
dears,  I'm  afraid,"  said  nurse*  "  At  least,  I  can't 
just  now  think  of  any  worth  telling  but  what  you've 
heard." 

"  Well,  let's  hear  some  not  worth  the  telling,"  said 
Floss,  persistently.  "  Nurse,"  she  went  on,  "  how  old 
must  Master  Hugh  and  Miss  Janet  be  by  now  ?  Do 
you  know  where  they  are  ?  " 

"  Master  Hugh  is  dead,"  said  nurse,  "  many  a  year 
ago,  poor  fellow,  and  little  Miss  Janet — why  she  was 
fifteen  years  older  than  I ;  mother  only  left  them  to 
be  married  when  Miss  Janet  was  past  twelve.  She 
must  be  quite  an  old  lady  by  now,  if  she  is  alive  - 
with  grandchildren  as  old  as  you,  perhaps  !  How 
strange  it  seems  !  " 

"  She  must  have  been  a  very  nice  little  girl,  and 


70  "  CARROTS." 

so  must  Master  Hugh  have  been  —  a  nice  little  boy, 
I  mean.  That  story  of  4  Mary  Ann  Jolly '  was  so 
interesting.  I  suppose  they  never  did  anything 
naughty  ?  "  said  Floss,  insinuatingly. 

"  Oh,  but  they  did,"  replied  nurse,  quite  unsus- 
picious of  the  trap  laid  for  her.  "  Master  Hugh  was 
very  mischievous.  Did  I  never  tell  you  what  they 
did  to  their  dog  Caesar  ?  " 

"  No,  never,"  said  both  the  children  in  a  breath ; 
"  do  tell  us." 

"  Well,  it  was  one  Sunday  morning,  to  tell  it  as 
mother  told  me,"  began  nurse.  "  You  know,  my 
dears,"  she  broke  off  again,  "  it  was  in  Scotland,  and 
rather  an  out-of-the-way  part  where  they  lived.  I 
know  the  place  well,  of  course,  for  it  wasn't  till  I 
was  seventeen  past  that  I  ever  left  it.  It  is  a  pretty 
place,  out  of  the  way  even  now,  I'm  told,  with  rail- 
ways and  all,  and  in  those  days  it  was  even  more 
out-of-the-way.  Six  miles  from  the  church,  and  the 
prayers  and  the  sermon  very  long  when  you  got 
there  !  Many  and  many  a  time  I've  fallen  asleep 
at  church,  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  Well,  to  go 
back  to  Master  Hugh  and  Miss  Janet.  It  was  on  a 
Sunday  morning  they  did  the  queer  piece  of  mischief 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  of.  They  had  been  left  at  home 
with  no  one  but  an  old  woman,  who  was  too  deaf  to 
go  to  church,  to  look  after  them.  She  lived  in  the 
lodge  close  by,  and  used  to  come  into  the  house  to 
help  when  the  servants  were  busy,  for  she  was  a  very 


A  LONG  AGO   STORY.  71 

trusty  old  body.  It  was  not  often  the  children  were 
left  without  mother,  or  perhaps  one  of  the  house- 
maids, to  take  care  of  them,  and  very  often  in  fine 
weather  they  used  to  be  taken  to  church  themselves, 
though  it  was  tiring  like  for  such  young  things.  But 
this  Sunday,  everybody  had  gone  to  church  because 
it  was  the  time  of  the  preachings  —  " 

"The  what,  nurse?"  said  Floss.  "Isn't  there 
preaching  every  Sunday  at  church?" 

"  Oh  yes,  my  dear ;  but  what  we  call  the  preach- 
ings in  Scotland  means  the  time  when  there  is  the 
communion  service,  which  is  only  twice  a  year.  You 
can't  understand,  my  dear,"  seeing  that  Floss  looked 
as  mystified  as  ever;  "but  never  mind.  When  you 
are  older,  you  will  find  that  there  are  many  differ- 
ent ways  of  saying  and  doing  the  same  things  in 
churches,  just  like  among  people.  But  this  Sunday 
I  am  telling  you  of,  the  services  were  to  be  very  long 
indeed,  too  long  for  the  children,  considering  the  six 
miles'  drive  and  all.  So  they  were  left  at  home  with 
old  Phemie." 

"Did  they  mind?"  said  Carrots. 

"  Oh  no ;  I  fancy  they  were  very  well  pleased. 
They  were  always  very  happy  together,  the  two  of 
them  and  Csesar." 

"And  of  course  they  promised  to  be  very  good," 
said  Floss. 

"No  doubt  of  that,"  said  nurse,  with  a  smile. 
"  Well,  they  certainly  hit  upon  a  queer  way  of  am  us- 


72 

ing  themselves.  Mother  came  home  from  church  one 
of  the  earliest ;  she  had  a  lift  in  one  of  the  farmer's 
carts,  and  came  in  at  the  lodge  gate  just  as  the  car- 
riage with  her  master  and  mistress  and  the  young 
ladies  was  driving  up.  They  all  got  out  at  the  big 
gate,  and  let  the  coachman  drive  round  to  the  stable 
the  back  way,  and  mother  came  quietly  walking  up 
the  drive  behind  them.  They  were  talking  seriously 
about  the  sermon  they  had  heard,  and  feeling  rather 
solemn-like,  I  dare  say,  when  all  at  once  there  flew 
down  the  drive  to  meet  them  the  most  fearsome-like 
creature  that  ever  was  seen.  It  was  like  nothing  in 
nature,  my  mother  said,  about  the  size  of  a  large 
wolf,  but  with  a  queer-shaped  head  and  body  —  at 
least  they  looked  queer  to  them,  not  knowing  what 
it  was  —  and  not  a  particle  of  hair  or  coat  of  any 
kind  upon  it.  It  rushed  up  to  my  lady,  that  was 
Miss  Janet's  mother,  and  tried  to  leap  upon  her;  but 
she  shrieked  to  her  husband,  and  he  up  with  his  stick 
—  he  always  took  a  stick  about  with  him  —  and  was 
just  on  the  point  of  giving  it  a  fearful  blow,  never 
thinking  but  what  it  was  one  of  the  beasts  escaped 
from  some  travelling  show,  when  one  of  the  young 
ladies  caught  his  arm. 

"  '  Stop,  father ! '  she  cried.     '  Don't  you  see  who 
it  is  ?     It's  CcesarS 

"  4  Ccesar! '  said  he.     '  My  dear,  that's  never  Caesar.' 

"  But  Caesar  it  was,  as  they  soon  saw  by  the  way 

he  jumped  and  whined,  and  seemed  to  beg  them  to 


A  LONG   AGO   STORY.  73 

understand  he  was  himself.  He  was  frightened  out 
of  his  wits,  poor  doggie,  for  he  had  never  felt  so 
queer  before,  and  couldn't  understand  what  had 
come  over  him." 

"  And  what  had  come  over  him  ?  "  asked  the  chil- 
dren eagerly. 

"Why,  Master  Hugh  and  Miss  Janet  had  spent 
the  morning  in  cropping  him ! "  replied  nurse. 
"  The  hair,  and  he  had  great  long  tfcick  hair,  was 
cut  off  as  close  and  as  neat  as  if  it  had  been  shaved ; 
it  was  really  wonderful  how  clean  they  had  done 
it  without  cutting  or  wounding  the  poor  doggie. 
They  had  taken  great  pains  about  it,  and  had  spent 
the  best  part  of  the  morning  over  it  —  the  two  of 
them,  Master  Hughie  with  the  great  kitchen  scis- 
sors, and  Miss  Janet  with  a  wee  fine  pair  she  had 
found  in  her  mamma's  workbox,  the  little  monkey! 
And  such  a  sight  as  the  kitchen  dresser  was  with 
hair !  For  they  told  how  they  had  made  Caesar 
jump  up  on  to  the  dresser  and  lie  first  on  one  side 
and  then  on  the  other,  till  all  was  cut  off." 

"Were  they  punished?"  asked  Floss,  anxiously. 
And  at  this  question  Carrots  looked  very  woe-be- 
gone. 

"  They  were  going  to  be,"  said  nurse,  "  but  some- 
how, I  cannot  justly  say  how  it  was,  they  were  let 
off.  The  whole  thing  was  such  a  queer  idea,  their 
father  and  mother  could  not  but  laugh  at  it,  though 
they  didn't  let  the  children  see  them-  And  what  do 


74  "  CAKROTS." 

you  think  my  lady  did  ?  She  took  all  poor  Csesar's 
hair  and  spun  it  up  into  worsted  for  knitting,  mixing 
it,  of  course,  with  long  yarn." 

"Did  she  spin?"  asked  Floss.  "I  thought  you 
said  she  was  a  lady." 

"And  that  she  was,  Miss  Flossie,  and  none  the 
less  so  for  being  able  to  spin  and  to  knit,  and  to 
cook  too,  I  dare  say,"  said  nurse.  "But  ladies, 
and  high  born  ones  too,  in  those  days  turned  their 
hands  to  many  things  they  think  beneath  them  now. 
I  know  Miss  Janet's  mother  would  never  have 
thought  of  letting  any  one  but  herself  wash  up 
her  breakfast  and  tea  services.  The  cups  were  a 
sight  to  be  seen,  certainly,  of  such  beautiful  old 
china ;  they  were  worth  taking  care  of ;  and  that's 
how  old  china  has  been  kept  together.  There  isn't 
much  of  what's  in  use  now-a-days  will  go  down  to 
your  grandchildren,  and  great-grandchildren,  Miss 
Flossie,  with  the  smashing  and  dashing  that  goes  on. 
My  lady  had  a  white  wood  bowl  kept  on  purpose, 
and  the  napkin  of  the  finest  damask,  and  a  large 
apron  of  fine  holland  that  she  put  on,  and,  oh  yes, 
a  pair  of  embroidered  holland  cuffs  she  used  to  draw 
on  over  her  sleeves  up  to  the  elbow ;  and  a  lady  she 
looked,  I  can  assure  you,  rinsing  out  and  drying  her 
beautiful  cups,  with  her  pretty  white  hands !  " 

"Did  you  ever  see  her?"  asked  Floss. 

"  Yes,  when  she  was  getting  to  be  quite  an  old 
lady,  I've  seen  her  several  times  when  I've  been 


A   LONG  AGO   STORY.  75 

sent  up  a  message  by  mother  to  the  house.  For  my 
mother  was  a  great  favourite  of  hers ;  I  never  went 
there  but  my  lady  would  have  me  in  to  have  a 
piece." 

"  A  piece  ?  "  repeated  Floss. 

Nurse  laughed.  UA  slice  of  bread  and  jam,  I 
should  say,  my  dear.  I  forget  that  I'm  far  away 
from  the  old  life  when  I  get  to  talking  of  those  days. 
And  to  think  I'm  getting  on  to  be  quite  an  old 
woman  myself;  older  in  some  ways  than  my  lady 
ever  was,  for  my  hair  is  fast  turning  gray,  and  hers 
had  never  a  silver  streak  in  it  to  the  last  day  of  her 
life,  and  she  died  at  eighty-four !  " 

Carrots  was  getting  a  little  tired,  for  he  hardly 
understood  all  that  nurse  was  saying.  To  create 
a  diversion  he  climbed  up  on  to  her  knee,  and  began 
stroking  her  face. 

"  Never  mind,  nursie,"  he  said.  "  I'll  always  love 
you,  even  when  your  hair's  kite  gray,  and  I  would 
marry  you  if  you  like  when  I'm  big,  only  I've 
promised  to  marry  Floss." 

"  Oh  you  funny  little  Carrots,"  said  Floss.  "  But 
nurse,"  she  went  on,  "  what  did  Janet's  mamma  do 
with  the  hair  when  she  had  spun  it?" 

"  She  knitted  it  into  a  pair  of  stockings  for  Mas- 
ter Hughie,"  said  nurse ;  "  but  they  weren't  much 
use.  They  were  well  enough  to  look  at,  but  no 
mortal  boy  could  have  worn  them  without  his  legs 
being  skinned,  they  were  so  pricky." 


76  "  CARROTS." 

"  And  what  became  of  Caesar?  "  said  Floss.  "  Did 
his  hair  ever  grow  again  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  nurse,  "  in  time  it  did,  though  I 
believe  it  never  again  looked  quite  so  silky  and  nice. 
But  Caesar  lived  to  a  good  old  age,  for  all  that.  He 
didn't  catch  cold,  for  my  lady  made  mother  make 
him  a  coat  of  a  bit  of  soft  warm  cloth,  which  he  wore 
for  some  time." 

"  How  funny  he  must  have  looked,"  said  Floss. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  said  a  voice  behind 
her,  and  turning  round,  Floss  saw  Cecil,  who  had 
come  into  the  room  without  their  hearing  her. 

"About  a  doggie,"  answered  Carrots.  "  Oh,  Cis, 
nurse  has  been  telling  us  such  a  lubly  story  about 
a  doggie.  Nursie,  dear,  won't  you  tell  us  another 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  My  stories  are  all  worn  out,  my  dear,"  said 
nurse,  shaking  her  head. 

"  Couldn't  you  tell  us  one,  Cis  ?  "  said  Carrots. 

"  Make  up  one,  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Cecil.  "  No, 
indeed,  I'm  sure  I  never  could.  Are  they  always 
at  you  to  tell  them  stories,  nurse?  If  so,  I  pity 
you." 

"Poor  little  things,"  said  nurse,  "it's  dull  for 
them  these  wet  days,  Miss  Cecil,  and  Master  Carrots' 
cold  has  been  bad." 

Cecil  looked  at  her  little  brother's  pale  face  as 
he  sat  nestling  in  nurse's  arms,  and  a  queer  new 
feeling  of  compunction  seized  her. 


A  LONG   AGO   STORY.  77 

"I  couldn't  tell  you  a  story,"  she  said;  "but  if 
you  like,  the  first  afternoon  it's  rainy,  and  you 
can't  go  out,  I'll  read  you  one.  Miss  Barclay  lent 
me  a  funny  old-fashioned  little  book  the  other 
day,  and  some  of  the  stories  in  it  are  fairy  ones. 
Would  you  like  that,  Carrots?" 

Floss  clapped  her  hands,  and  Carrots  slid  down 
from  nurse's  knee,  and  coming  quietly  up  to  Cecil, 
threw  his  arms  round  her  neck,  and  gave  her  a  kiss. 

"  I  hope  it'll  rain  to-morrow,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"  It  is  kind  of  Miss  Cecil,"  said  nurse  ;  and  as 
Cecil  left  the  nursery  she  added  to  herself,  "  it  will 
be  a  comfort  to  her  mother  if  she  begins  to  take 
thought  for  the  little  ones,  and  I've  always  felt 
sure  it  was  in  her  to  do  so,  if  only  she  could  get 
into  the  way  of  it." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"THE  BEWITCHED  TONGUE." 

"  Thou  wilt  not  fail 
To  listen  to  a  fairy  tale." 

LEWIS  CARROLL. 

IT  did  rain  the  next  day !  And  Cecil  did  not  for- 
get her  promise.  Just  as  the  old  nursery  clock  was 
striking  four,  a  full  hour  still  to  her  tea-time,  she 
marched  into  the  room  with  a  little  old  brown  book 
in  her  hand.  I  wonder  if  any  of  you  have  ever  seen 
that  little  old  book,  or  one  like  it,  I  should  say  ?  It 
was  about  the  size  of  the  first  edition  of  "  Evenings 
at  Home,"  which  some  of  you  are  sure  to  have  in 
your  book-cases.  For  I  should  think  everybody's 
grandfathers  and  grandmothers  had  an  "  Evenings 
at  Home  "  among  their  few,  dearly-prized  children's 
books. 

Do  you  know  how  very  few  those  books  were  ? 
You  may  have  heard  it,  but  I  scarcely  fancy  you 
have  ever  thought  over  the  great  difference  between 
yourselves  and  long-ago-children  in  this  respect. 
Now-a-days,  when  you  have  galloped  through  all 
the  brilliant  blue  and  green  and  scarlet  little  vol- 
umes that  have  been  given  to  you  on  birthdays  and 
Christmas-days,  you  come  with  a  melancholy  face 

78 


"THE   BEWITCHED   TONGUE."  79 

to  your  mother,  and  tell  her  you  have  "nothing 
to  read."  And  then,  most  likely,  when  your  mother 
goes  to  the  library,  she  chooses  a  book  for  you  out 
of  the  "juvenile  department,"  and  when  it  is  done 
you  get  another,  till  you  can  hardly  remember  what 
you  have  read  and  what  you  haven't.  But  as  for 
reading  any  book  twice  over,  that  is  never  to  be 
thought  of. 

Not  so  was  it  long  ago.  Not  only  had  no  children 
many  books,  but  everywhere  children  had  the  same  ! 
There  was  seldom  any  use  in  little  friends  lending 
to  each  other,  for  it  was  always  the  same  thing 
over  again :  "  Evenings  at  Home,"  "  Sandford  and 
Merton,"  "  Ornaments  Discovered,"  and  so  on. 

You  think,  I  dare  say,  that  it  must  have  been  very 
stupid  and  tiresome  to  have  so  little  variety,  but  1 
think  you  are  in  some  ways  mistaken.  Children 
really  read  their  books  in  those  days ;  they  put  more 
of  themselves  into  their  reading,  so  that,  stupid  as 
these  quaint  old  stories  might  seem  to  you  now-a- 
days,  they  never  seemed  so  then.  What  was  want- 
ing in  them  the  children  filled  up  out  of  their  own 
fresh  hearts  and  fancies,  and  however  often  they 
read  and  re-read  them,  they  always  found  something 
new.  They  got  to  know  the  characters  in  their 
favourite  stories  like  real  friends,  and  would  talk 
'them  over  with  their  companions,  and  compare  their 
opinions  about  them  in  a  way  that  made  each  book 
as  good,  or  better,  than  a  dozen. 


80 

So  there  is  something  to  be  said  for  this  part  of 
the  "ancien  regime"  —  if  you  do  not  understand 
what  that  means,  you  will  some  day  —  after  all ! 

The  volume  that  Cecil  Desart  brought  into  the 
nursery  was  called  "  Faults  Corrected ;  or,"  (there 
was  always  long  ago  an  "  or  "  in  the  titles  of  books) 
"  Beneficent  Influences." 

"  Some  of  the  stories  are  stupid,"  said  Cecil,  as 
she  sat  down.  "  Miss  Barclay  said  it  was  her  mother's 
when  she  was  a  little  girl,  so  it  must  be  rather 
ancient ;  but  I  think  I've  found  one  that  will  amuse 
you,  and  that  Carrots  can  understand." 

"  What's  it  called  ?  "  said  Floss,  peering  over  her 
sister's  shoulder.  "  4  Faults  Corrected  ;  or,  Ben  — 
ben  —  '  what  word's  that,  Cecil?" 

"  Sit  down,  Floss,  and  be  quiet,  or  I  won't  read  to 
you,"  said  Cecil,  emphatically.  "  That's  the  name 
of  the  whole  book  you  are  looking  at,  and  you 
wouldn't  understand  the  word  if  I  told  it  you. 
The  name  of  the  story  I'm  going  to  read  to  you 
is,  '  The  Bewitched  Tongue  ;  or,  Think  before 
you  speak.  A  Fairy  Tale.' ': 

Floss  would  have  liked  to  clap  her  hands,  but  she 
was  afraid  of  another  snub  from  Cecil,  so  she  re- 
strained her  feelings. 

"  When  there  come  very  long  words,"  continued 
Cecil  —  "  there  often  are  in  old  books  —  I'll  change 
them  to  easy  ones,  so  that  Carrots  may  understand. 
Now,  be  quiet  all  of  you,  I'm  going  to  begin.  4  The 


"Now,  BE  QUIET  ALL  OF  YOU,  I'M  GOING  TO  BEGIN."— p.  80. 


"THE   BEWITCHED   TONGUE."  81 

Bewitched  Tongue,  etc.'  I'm  not  going  to  read  all 
the  title  again.  4  In  a  beautiful  mansion  '  (that  just 
means  a  fine  house,  Carrots)  '  surrounded  by  pleasure 
grounds  of  great  extent,  there  lived,  many  years  ago, 
a  young  girl  named  Elizabetha.  She  was  of  charming 
appearance  and  pleasing  manners ;  her  parents  loved 
her  devotedly,  her  brothers  and  sisters  looked  upon 
her  with  amiable  affection,  her  teachers  found  her 
docile  and  intelligent.  Yet  Elizabetha  constantly 
found  herself,  despite  their  affection,  shunned  and 
feared  by  her  best  and  nearest  friends,  and  absolutely 
disliked  by  those  who  did  not  know  her  well  enough 
to  feel  assured  of  the  real  goodness  of  her  heart. 

'This  sad  state  of  things  was  all  owing  to  one 
unfortunate  habit.  She  had  a  hasty  tongue.  What- 
ever thought  was  uppermost  in  her  mind  at  the 
moment,  she  expressed  without  reflection;  she  never 
remembered  the  wholesome  adage,  "Think  before 
you  speak,"  or  that  other  excellent  saying,  "  Second 
thoughts  are  best." 

4  Her  disposition  was  far  from  unamiable  or  mali- 
cious, yet  the  mischief  of  which  she  was  the  cause 
was  indescribable.  Every  servant  in  the  household 
dreaded  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  voice,  for  many 
had  she  involved  in  trouble  and  disgrace  ;  and  as  her 
temper  was  naturally  quick  and  impetuous,  and  she 
never  attempted  to  check  her  first  expressions  of 
provocation,  small  and  even  trifling  disagreements 
were  by  her  foolish  tongue  exaggerated  into  lasting 


82 

discord,  long  after  all  real  cause  of  offence  had  passed 
from  her  mind. 

4 "  My  brother  will  not  forgive  me,"  she  confessed 
one  day  to  her  mother,  with  many  tears,  "  and  the 
quarrel  was  only  that  he  had  broken  the  vase  of 
flowers  that  stand  on  my  table.  I  forgave  him  —  I 
would  rather  lose  twenty  vases  than  his  affection  — 
and  yet  he  will  not  speak  to  me,  and  passes  me  by 
with  indignant  looks." 

4 "  And  did  you  at  once  express  your  forgiveness 
to  him,  Elizabetha  ?  "  said  her  mother.  "  When  you 
first  discovered  the  accident,  what  words  escaped 
you?" 

'Elizabetha  reflected,  and  presently  her  colour 
rose. 

4 "  I  fear,  ma'am,"  she  said,  "  I  fear  that  at  the 
first  sight  of  the  broken  vase  I  spoke  unguardedly. 
I  exclaimed  that  without  doubt  Adolphus  had 
thrown  down  the  ornament  on  purpose  to  annoy 
me,  and  that  I  wished  so  mean-spirited  a  youth 
were  not  my  brother.  My  little  sister  Celia  was 
beside  me  at  the  time  —  can  she  have  carried  to 
him  what  I  said?  I  did  not  really  mean  that;  my 
words  were  but  the  momentary  expression  of  my 
vexation." 

4  Her  mother  gravely  shook  her  head. 

4  44  It  is  your  own  doing  altogether,  Elizabetha," 
she  said,  44and  you  cannot  complain  that  your 
brother  resents  so  unkind  and  untrue  a  charge." 


"THE   BEWITCHED   TONGUE."  83 

4  Elizabetha  burst  into  tears,  but  the  harm  was 
done,  and  it  was  some  time  before  Adolphus  could 
forget  the  pain  of  her  unjust  and  hasty  words. 

4  Another  day  her  little  brother  Jacky  had  just 
with  great  pains  and  care  written  out  his  task  for  the 
next  morning,  when,  having  been  called  to  supper, 
he  found  on  his  return  to  the  schoolroom  his  exercise 
book  all  blotted  and  disfigured. 

4 "  Who  can  have  done  this  ? "  he  cried  in  dis- 
tress. 

4  Elizabetha  was  just  entering  the  room. 

4  44  Oh,*'  she  exclaimed,  44  it  is  Sukey,  the  under- 
housemaid,  that  you  have  to  thank  for  that.  I  saw 
her  coming  out  of  the  room,  and  she  had  no  reason  to 
enter  it.  Out  of  curiosity  she  has  been  looking  at 
your  books,  and  blotted  your  exercise." 

4  Jacky  was  but  eight  years  old,  full  young  for 
prudence  or  reflection.  Downstairs  he  flies,  his 
face  inflamed  with  anger,  and  meeting  the  unfortu- 
nate Sukey  at  the  door  of  the  servants'  hall,  upbraids 
her  in  no  gentle  terms  for  her  impertinence.  In 
vain  the  poor  girl  defends  herself,  and  denies  Master 
Jacky 's  accusation ;  the  other  servants  come  to  the 
rescue,  and  the  whole  household  is  in  an  uproar,  till 
suddenly  Miss  Elizabetha  is  named  as  the  source  of 
the  mischief. 

4  44  Ah,"  says  the  old  housekeeper,  44  do  not  distress 
yourself,  Sukey ;  we  all  know  what  Miss  Elizabetha's 
tongue  is !  " 


84  "  CAKROTS." 

• 

4  And  thereupon  the  poor  girl  is  freed  from  blame. 
She  had  only  gone  to  the  schoolroom  by  the  desire 
of  an  upper  servant  to  mend  the  fire,  and  the  real 
offender  was  discovered  to  have  been  the  cat ! 

4  This  affair  coming  to  the  ears  of  Elizabetha's 
father,  he  reproved  her  with  great  severity.  Morti- 
fied and  chagrined,  she,  as  usual,  wept  bitterly,  and 
ashamed  to  meet  the  cold  looks  of  the  household, 
she  hastened  out  into  the  garden  and  paced  up  and 
down  a  shady  walk,  where  she  imagined  herself 
quite  hidden  from  observation.' ' 

"  Cis,"  interrupted  Carrots  at  this  point,  "  I  don't 
understand  the  story." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Cecil,  "  I  didn't  notice 
what  a  lot  of  long  words  there  are.  Shall  I  leave 
off?" 

"7  understand  it,"  said  Floss. 

"  Then  read  it  for  Floss,  please,  Cis,"  said  Carrots. 
"  I'll  be  kite  still." 

"  You're  a  good  little  boy,"  said  Cecil ;  "  I  suppose 
I  may  as  well  finish  it  as  I  have  begun.  We're 
coming  to  the  fairy  part  now.  Perhaps  you'll 
understand  it  better.  Where  was  I  ?  Oh  yes, 
'  imagined  herself  quite  hidden  from  observation. 
But  in  this  she  was  mistaken,  as  my  readers  will  see. 

4  She  walked  slowly  up  and  down.  "  Oh  my 
tongue,  my  cruel  tongue ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  what 
trouble  it  is  the  cause  of !  How  can  I  cure  myself 
of  my  rash  speech  ?  " 


"THE   BEWITCHED  TONGUE."  85 

4 "  Do  you  in  all  sincerity  wish  to  cure  yourself, 
Elizabetha?"  said  a  voice  beside  her;  and  turning 
in  surprise  at  its  sound,  the  young  girl  perceived  at 
a  few  steps'  distance  a  fair  and  sweet  looking  lady, 
clad  in  silvery- white,  adorned  with  wreaths  of  the 
loveliest  flowers. 

"'Assuredly  I  do,  gracious  lady,"  replied  Eliza- 
betha, mastering  as  well  as  she  was  able  her  surprise, 
for  she  felt  that  this  beautiful  lady  must  be  a  fairy 
of  high  degree. 

4 "  Then  I  will  help  you,"  said  the  lady,  "  but  on 
one  condition,  hereafter  to  be  explained.  You  are 
content  to  agree  to  this  beforehand?" 

4  "  To  anything,  kind  fairy,"  replied  the  young  girl, 
"  if  only  my  unhappy  fault  can  be  cured." 

4  The  fairy  smiled.  44  Hasty  as  ever,"  she  mur- 
mured; 44  however,  in  this  instance,  you  shall  have 
no  reason  to  regret  your  words.  Put  out  your 
tongue,  Elizabetha." 

4  Trembling  slightly,  the  young  girl  obeyed.  But 
her  fears  were  uncalled  for  —  the  fairy  merely 
touched  the  unruly  member  with  her  wand  and 
whispered  some  words,  the  meaning  of  which  Eliza- 
betha could  not  understand. 

4  44  Meet  me  here  one  week  hence,"  said  the  fairy, 
44  till  then  your  tongue  will  obey  my  commands. 
And  if  you  then  feel  you  have  reason  to  feel 
grateful  to  me,  I  will  call  upon  you  to  redeem  your 
promise." 


86  « CARROTS." 

4  And  before  Elizabetha  could  reply,  the  lady  had 
disappeared. 

'Full  of  eagerness  and  curiosity,  Elizabetha  re- 
turned to  the  house.  It  was  growing  dusk,  and 
as  she  sped  along  the  garden  paths  something  ran 
suddenly  against  her,  causing  her  to  trip  and  fall. 
As  she  got  up  she  perceived  that  it  was  Fido,  the 
dog  of  her  brother  Adolphus.  The  creature  came 
bounding  up  to  her  again,  full  of  play  and  affection. 
But  in  her  fall  Elizabetha  had  bruised  herself;  she 
felt  angry  and  indignant. 

4 "  Get  off  with  you,  you  clumsy  wretch,"  she 
exclaimed,  or  meant  to  exclaim.  But  to  her  amaze- 
ment the  words  that  issued  from  her  mouth  were 
quite  otherwise. 

4  "  Gently,  gently,  my  poor  Fido.  Thou  didst  not 
mean  to  knock  me  down,  however,"  she  said  in  a 
kind  and  caressing  tone,  which  the  dog  at  once 
obeyed. 

'Hardly  knowing  whether  she  were  awake  or 
dreaming,  Elizabetha  entered  the  house.  She  was 
met  by  her  sister  Maria. 

4  "Where  have  you  been,  Elizabetha?"  she  in- 
quired. "  Your  friends  the  Misses  Larkyn  have 
been  here,  but  no  one  could  find  you,  so  they  have 
gone." 

4  Elizabetha  felt  extremely  annoyed.  She  had  not 
seen  her  friends  for  some  weeks,  and  had  much 
wished  for  a  visit  from  them. 


"THE   BEWITCHED   TONGUE."  87 

4 "  I  think  it  was  most  ill-natured  of  none  of  you 
to  look  for  me  in  the  garden.  You  might  have 
known  I  was  there  if  you  had  cared  to  oblige  me," 
were  the  words  she  intended  to  say,  but  instead  of 
which  were  heard  the  following : 

4 "  I  thank  you,  my  dear  Maria.  I  am  sorry  to 
have  missed  my  friends,  but  it  cannot  be  helped." 

4  And  when  Maria,  pleased  by  her  gentleness,  went 
on  to  tell  her,  that  knowing  that  her  disappointment 
would  be  great,  and  as  the  Misses  Larkyn  had  been 
too  pressed  for  time  to  linger,  she  had  arranged  to 
walk  with  Elizabetha  the  following  day  to  see  them, 
how  rejoiced  was  Elizabetha  that  her  intended  words 
of  unkindness  had  not  been  uttered !  "  Kind  fairy, 
I  thank  thee  !  "  she  whispered  to  herself. 

4  The  following  day  the  same  state  of  things  con- 
tinued. Many  times  before  its  close  did  Elizabetha's 
hasty  temper  endeavour  to  express  itself  in  rash 
speech,  but  each  time  the  tongue  remained  faithful 
to  its  new  mistress.  Whenever  Elizabetha  attempted 
to  speak  hastily,  the  words  that  issued  from  her  lips 
were  exactly  the  opposite  of  those  she  had  intended 
to  utter ;  and  as  her  real  disposition  was  amiable  and 
good,  not  once  did  she  regret  the  metamorphosis. 

4  Her  parents,  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  even 
the  servants  of  the  family,  were  amazed  and  delighted 
at  the  change. 

4  44  Go  on  as  thou  hast  begun,  my  child,"  said  her 
father,  on  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  Eliza- 


88 

betha  was  again  to  meet  the  fairy,  "  and  soon  the 
name  of  Elizabetha  will  be  associated  with  gentle- 
ness and  discretion  in  speech  as  in  deed." 

'Elizabetha  blushed.  She  would  have  liked  to 
confess  that  the  credit  of  the  improvement  was  not 
her  own ;  but  a  moment's  reflection  reminded  her 
that  she  had  not  received  permission  to  divulge  the 
secret,  and  kissing  affectionately  her  father's  hand, 
she  thanked  him  for  his  encouragement. 

'At  the  appointed  hour  she  was  on  the  spot, 
awaiting  the  fairy,  who  soon  appeared.  A  benig- 
nant smile  overspread  her  features. 

4 "  Well,  Elizabetha,"  she  said,  "  and  hast  thou 
found  that  I  have  deserved  thy  gratitude  ?  " 

' "  Kind  fairy,"  cried  the  young  girl,  "  I  cannot 
thank  thee  enough.  Ask  of  me  what  thou  wilt,  I 
shall  be  only  too  ready  to  perform  it." 

4  The  fairy  smiled.  "  My  condition  is  a  very 
simple  one,"  she  said.  "  It  is  only  this.  Whenever, 
Elizabetha,  you  feel  yourself  in  the  least  degree  dis- 
composed or  out  of  temper,  utter  no  word  till  you 
have  mentally  counted  the  magic  number  seven. 
And  if  you  follow  this  rule,  it  will  be  but  seldom 
that  your  tongue,  of  which  I  now  restore  to  you  the 
full  control"  (she  touched  it  again  with  her  wand 
as  she  spoke)  "  will  lead  you  into  trouble.  Your 
disposition,  though  generous,  is  naturally  hasty  and 
impulsive,  and  till  by  a  long  course  of  self-restraint 
you  have  acquired  complete  mastery  over  yourself, 


89 

you  will  find  that  I  was  right  in  my  experiment 
of  obliging  your  tongue  to  utter  the  exact  opposite 
of  what  you,  in  your  first  haste,  would  have  ex- 
pressed." 

4  And  before  Elizabetha  could  reply,  she  had 
disappeared. 

4  But  Elizabetha  kept  her  promise,  and  to  thus 
following  her  fairy  friend's  advice  she  owes  it  that 
she  is  now  the  object  of  universal  esteem  and  affec- 
tion, instead  of  being  hated,  despised,  and  feared  as 
the  owner  of  "  a  hasty  tongue." 

Cecil  stopped. 

"Is  that  all?  "  said  Carrots. 

"  Yes,  that's  all.     Did  you  like  it?  " 

"  I  did  understand  better  about  the  fairy,"  Carrots 
replied.  "  I  think  she  was  a  werry  good  fairy;  don't 
you,  Floss  ?  " 

"  Very"  said  Floss.  "  I  think,"  she  went  on, 
"  whenever  I  am  cross,  I  shall  fancy  my  tongue  is 
bewitched,  just  to  see  if  it  would  be  best  to  say  the 
opposite  of  what  I  was  going  to  say.  Wouldn't  it 
be  fun  ?  " 

"  Better  than  fun,  perhaps,  Miss  Flossie,"  said 
nurse.  "  I  think  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  if 
big  people,  too,  were  sometimes  to  follow  the  fairy's 
rule." 

"  People  as  big  as  you,  nursie  ?  "  asked  Carrots. 

"  Oh  yes,  my  dear,"  said  nurse.  "  It's  a  lesson 
we're  all  slow  to  learn,  and  many  haven't  learnt  it 


90  "CARROTS." 

by  the  end  of  their  threescore  years  and  ten  — 4  to 
be  slow  to  anger,'  and  to  keep  our  tongues  from 
evil." 

'•'•That's  out  of  the  Bible,  nursie,  all  of  it,"  said 
Floss,  as  if  not  altogether  sure  that  she  approved  of 
the  quotation. 

Cecil  laughed. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Cis  ? "  said  Floss. 
"  It  is  out  of  the  Bible." 

"  Well,  no  one  said  it  wasn't,"  said  Cecil. 

"  Cis,"  said  Carrots,  "  will  you  read  us  another 
story,  another  day  ?  " 

"  If  I  can  find  one  that  you  can  understand,"  said 
Cecil. 

"  Never  mind  if  I  can't,"  replied  Carrots.  "  I  like 
to  hear  you  reading,  even  if  I  can't  understand.  I 
like  your  voice.  I  think"  he  added  after  a  pause, 
"  I  think,  Cis,  I'll  marry  you  too,  when  I'm  big. 
You  and  Floss,  and  nurse." 

So  Cecil  had  good  reason  to  feel  that  she  was 
greatly  appreciated  in  the  nursery. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SYBIL. 

"  The  children  crowned  themselves  with  wishes, 
And  every  wish  came  true." 

CROWNS  FOR  CHILDREN. 

BUT  it  is  not  always,  or  even  often,  that  wishes 
"  come  true,"  is  it  children  ?  Or  if  they  do  come 
true,  it  is  in  a  different  way ;  so  different  that  they 
hardly  seem  the  same.  Like  the  little  old  woman 
in  the  ballad,  who  turned  herself  about  and  wondered 
and  puzzled,  but  couldn't  make  out  if  she  was  her- 
self or  not,  we  stare  at  our  fulfilled  wishes  and 
examine  them  on  every  side,  but  in  their  altered 
dress  —  so  different  from,  and,  very  seldom,  if  ever, 
as  pretty  as  that  which  they  wore  in  our  imagination 
—  we  cannot  believe  that  they  are  themselves  ! 

Do  you  remember  the  fancies  that  Carrots  and 
Floss  used  to  have  about  their  cousin  Sybil,  and  how 
they  wished  for  her  to  come  to  see  them?  Well, 
about  a  fortnight  after  the  affair  of  the  lost  half- 
sovereign,  Sybil  actually  did  come  to  see  them  !  She 
and  her  mamma.  But  it  all  happened  quite  differ- 
ently from  the  way  the  children  had  planned  it,  so 
that  just  at  first  they  could  hardly  believe  it  was 
"  a  wish  come  true,"  though  afterwards,  when  it  was 

91 


92 

over,  and  they  began  to  look  back  to  it  as  a  real 
thing  instead  of  forwards  to  it  as  a  fancy,  they  grew 
to  think  it  had  really  turned  out  nicer  than  any  of 
their  fancies. 

You  would  like  to  hear  all  about  it,  I  dare  say. 

It  took  them  all  by  surprise  —  this  sudden  visit  of 
Sybil  and  her  mother,  I  mean.  There  was  no  time 
for  planning  or  arranging  anything.  There  just 
came  a  telegram  one  afternoon,  to  say  that  Mrs.  — 
no,  I  don't  think  I  will  tell  you  the  name  of  Sybil's 
mother,  I  want  you  just  to  think  of  her  as  "  auntie  " 
—  and  her  little  girl  would  arrive  at  Sandyshore,  late 
that  same  evening,  "  to  stay  one  day,"  said  the  tele- 
gram, on  their  way  to  some  other  place,  it  does  not 
matter  where. 

It  was  several  years  since  Captain  Desart  had  seen 
his  sister  —  that  is,  "auntie."  He  had  been  abroad 
at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  for  she  was  a  good  many 
years  younger  than  he,  and  since  then,  she  and  her 
husband  had  been  a  great  deal  out  of  England.  But 
now  at  last  they  were  going  to  have  a  settled  home, 
and  though  it  was  a  good  way  from  Sandyshore,  still 
it  was  not  like  being  in  another  country. 

"I  am  sorry  Florence  can  only  stay  one  day,"  said 
Mrs.  Desart  to  her  husband ;  "  it  seems  hardly  worth 
while  for  her  to  come  so  far  out  of  her  way  for  so 
short  a  time." 

"I  am  sorry  too,"  said  Captain  Desart;  "but  a 
day's  better  than  nothing." 


SYBIL.  93 

Floss  and  Carrots  were  sorry  too  —  but  what  they 
were  most  sorry  for  was  not  that  Sybil  and  her 
mamma  were  only  going  to  stay  there  one  day,  it 
was  that  they  would  not  arrive  till  after  the  chil- 
dren's bedtime !  So  much  after,  that  there  could 
not  even  be  a  question  of  their  "  sitting  up  till  they 
corne."  There  was  even  a  doubt  of  Cecil  and  Louise 
doing  so,  and  Floss  could  not  help  feeling  rather 
pleased  at  Mott's  getting  a  decided  snub  from  his 
father  when  he  broached  the  subject  on  his  own 
account. 

"  Sit  up  till  after  ten  o'clock  —  nonsense.  Nobody 
wants  you.  Go  to  bed  as  usual,  of  course,"  said 
Captain  Desart. 

"  How  tired  that  poor  little  girl  will  be ! "  said 
Mrs.  Desart  pityingly.  "  Children,  you  must  all 
be  quiet  in  the  morning  so  as  not  to  wake  her 
early.  And  you  must  be  very  gentle  and  kind  to 
her,  for  you  know  she  is  not  accustomed  to  com- 
panions." 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  said  Floss  and  Carrots  promptly. 
Mott  said  nothing,  for,  of  course,  the  speech  could 
not  have  been  addressed  to  him.  Mr.  Maurice 
Desart,  nearly  thirteen  years  old,  could  not  be 
supposed  to  be  a  companion  to  a  mite  of  a  girl  of 
six. 

"  It  won't  be  difficult  to  be  quiet  to-morrow 
morning,"  said  Floss  to  Carrots,  "  for  I  expect  I 
shall  be  very  sleepy,  as  I  have  quite  made  up  my 


94  "  CARROTS." 

mind  to  stay  awake  to-night,  till  I  hear  them 
come." 

It  was  then  eight  o'clock,  and  Floss  was  going 
to  bed.  Carrots  had  been  in  bed  nearly  an  hour, 
but  was  not  yet  asleep.  He  soon  dropped  off,  how- 
ever, and  how  long  do  you  think  Floss  kept  awake  ? 
Till  twenty-three  minutes  past  eight,  or  not  so  late 
probably,  for  that  was  the  time  by  the  nursery  clock, 
when  nurse  came  in  to  see  that  her  charges  were 
tucked  up  for  the  night,  and  found  them  both  fast 
asleep ! 

They  were  in  a  state  of  great  expectation  the 
next  morning  when  they  were  being  dressed,  but 
they  remembered  their  promise  and  were  very  quiet. 

"  When  shall  we  see  Sybil  ? "  asked  Carrots ; 
"will  she  have  breakfast  in  the  nursery?" 

"  Of  course  riot,"  said  Floss,  "  she  won't  be  up  for 
ever  so  long,  I  dare  say." 

"Poor  little  thing,  she  must  be  very  tired,"  said 
nurse. 

"Did  you  see  her  last  night?"  asked  Floss 
eagerly. 

Nurse  shook  her  head.  "It  was  past  ten  when 
they  arrived,"  she  said,  "  the  little  lady  was  put  to 
bed  at  once,  your  mamma  and  sisters  only  saw  her 
for  a  minute." 

So  Floss  and  Carrots  ate  their  bread  and  milk  in 
undiminished  curiosity.  Not  long  afterwards  the  bell 
rang  for  prayers  in  the  dining-room  as  usual,  and  the 


SYBIL.  95 

two,  hand  in  hand,  went  in  to  take  their  places  among 
the  others. 

They  were  rather  late,  Captain  Desart  had  the 
Prayer  Book  and  Bible  open  before  him,  and  was 
looking  impatient,  so  Floss  and  Carrots  sat  down 
on  their  little  chairs  and  left  "  good-mornings  "  till 
after  prayers.  There  was  a  strange  lady  beside  their 
mother,  and,  yes,  beside  the  strange  lady  a  strange 
little  girl !  Was  t hat  Sybil  ?  Where  was  the  fair- 
haired,  blue-eyed,  waxen,  doll-like  Sybil,  they  had 
expected  to  see  ? 

What  they  did  see  was  worth  looking  at,  however. 
It  was  a  very  pretty  Sybil  after  all.  Small  and  dark, 
dark-eyed,  dark-haired,  and  browny-red  as  to  com- 
plexion, Sybil  was  more  like  a  gipsy  than  an  angel 
as  they  had  fancied  her.  She  had  very  pretty,  very 
bright,  noticing  eyes,  and  she  was  pretty  altogether. 
She  was  dressed  in  black  velvet  with  a  bright  crim- 
son sash,  and  her  hair  was  tied  with  crimson  ribbon ; 
her  neat  little  legs  were  clothed  in  black  silk  stock- 
ings, and  there  were  buckles  on  her  tiny  shoes. 

Floss  and  Carrots  hardly  dared  to  stare  at  her, 
for  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  noticing  them  all  over, 
and  when  prayers  were  finished,  and  their  mamma 
called  them  to  come  to  speak  to  their  aunt  and 
cousin,  do  you  know  they  actually  both  felt  quite 
shy  of  Sybil,  small  as  she  was?  More  shy  of  her 
than  of  their  aunt,  somehow ;  she  seemed  more  like 
what  they  had  expected,  or,  perhaps,  the  truth  was 


96  "  CARROTS." 

they  had  "expected"  much  less  about  her.  Besides 
no  children  ever  were  shy  with  auntie,  such  a  thing 
would  have  been  impossible. 

They  kissed  Sybil,  Floss  feeling  very  tall  and 
lanky  beside  her  compact  tiny  cousin,  and  Carrots 
feeling  I  don't  know  how.  He  just  looked  at  Sybil 
with  his  soft  wondering  brown  eyes,  in  such  a  sol- 
emn way  that  at  last  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"  What  a  funny  boy  you  are ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Mother  dear,  isn't  he  a  funny  boy  ? " 

"  Aren't  you  very  tired,  Sybil  ?  "  said  Floss,  afraid 
that  she  would  be  laughed  at  as  "  a  funny  girl,"  next. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Sybil,  quite  grave,  and  like 
a  grown-up  person,  all  in  a  minute.  "I'm  becus- 
tomed  to  travelling.  I'm  not  tired  at  all,  but  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  am  —  I'm,"  and  out  broke  her  merry 
laugh  again,  " I'm  very  hungry" 

"  That's  a  broad  hint,"  said  Captain  Desart,  laugh- 
ing too.  "  Florence,  your  daughter  is  ready  for 
breakfast,  do  you  hear?  Where  will  you  sit,  Miss 
Sybil  ?  Beside  your  old  uncle,  eh  ?  " 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  replied  Sybil,  "if  you  won't 
call  me  Miss  Sybil,  please.  And  may  this  little  boy 
sit  'aside  me  ?  " 

"  This  little  boy  and  this  little  girl  have  had  their 
breakfast,"  said  Mrs.  Desart.  "Run  off,  Carrots  and 
Floss,  you  are  both  to  have  a  whole  holiday  you 
know,  so  Sybil  will  see  plenty  of  you." 

"  I  wish  they  could  see  more  of  each  other,'v  said 


SYBIL.  97 

auntie,  as  the  children  left  the  room.  "  Some  time 
you  must  let  them  both  come  and  pay  us  a  long 
visit,  when  we  are  really  settled  you  know." 

Auntie  gave  a  little  sigh  as  she  said  this  —  she 
felt  so  tender  and  kind  to  Carrots  and  Floss,  and 
something  made  her  a  little  sorry  for  them.  Though 
the}^  were  healthy,  happy-looking  children,  and  their 
dress  was  neat  and  cared  for,  they  did  not  look  like 
her  Sybil,  whose  clothes  were  always  like  those  of 
a  little  princess.  Floss's  frock  was  rather  faded- 
looking,  and  there  was  a  mark  where  it  had  been  let 
down,  and  Carrots'  brown  holland  blouse  had  arrived 
at  a  very  whitey-brown  shade,  through  much  wear 
and  washing. 

"It  must  be  hard  work  with  so  many  children, 
and  such  small  means,"  she  thought  to  herself,  for 
auntie  had  been  married  young  to  a  rich  man,  and 
knew  little  of  "  making  both  ends  meet,"  but  aloud 
she  only  said,  "  how  lovely  little  Fabian  would  look 
in  black  velvet,  Lucy!  What  a  complexion  he 
has!" 

"  Yes,  if  you  can  forgive  him  his  hair,"  said  Mrs. 
Desart. 

"  I  think  his  hair  is  beautiful,"  observed  Sybil  and 
then  went  on  eating  her  breakfast. 

They  all  laughed,  but  there  was  still  a  little  sigh 
at  the  bottom  of  auntie's  heart.  There  was  reason 
for  it  greater  than  the  sight  of  her  little  nephew's 
and  niece's  shabby  clothes. 


98 

But  there  was  no  sigh  in  the  hearts  of  Floss  and 
Carrots. 

"  Carrots,"  said  Floss,  as  they  made  their  way  to 
the  nursery  to  decide  which  of  their  small  collection 
of  toys  were  fit  for  Sybil's  inspection,  "  Carrots,  did 
you  hear." 

"What  auntie  said?"  asked  Carrots.  "Yes,  I 
heard.  Do  you  think  mamma  will  ever  let  us  go  ?  " 

"Some  day,  perhaps,"  said  Floss,  and  oh  what 
dreams  and  plans  and  fancies  hung  on  that  "per- 
haps ! "  "Fancy,  Carrots,  we  should  go  in  the  rail- 
way, you  and  me,  Carrots,  alone  perhaps." 

"  Oh,  Floss ! "  said  Carrots,  his  feelings  being 
beyond  further  expression. 

That  "  some  day  "  was  a  good  way  off,  however, 
but  "  to-day "  was  here,  and  a  nice  bright-looking 
to-day  it  was.  How  happy  they  were  !  How  happy 
Sybil  was! 

For,  somehow,  though  she  was  dressed  like  a  prin- 
cess, though  since  babyhood  she  had  had  everything 
a  child  could  wish  for,  though  very  often,  I  must 
confess,  she  had  had  "  her  own  way,"  a  good  deal 
more  than  would  have  been  good  for  most  children, 
little  Sybil  was  not  spoilt.  The  spoiling  dropped  off 
her  like  water  down  a  duck's  back,  and  auntie  never 
found  out  it  had  been  there  at  all !  Perhaps  after 
all  there  is  a  kind  of  spoiling  that  isn't  spoiling  — 
love  and  kindness,  and  even  indulgence,  do  not  spoil 
when  there  is  perfect  trust  and  openness,  and  when 


SYBIL.  99 

a  child  at  the  same  time  is  taught  the  one  great 
lesson,  that  the  best  happiness  is  trying  to  make 
others  happy  too. 

They  played  on  the  sands  nearly  all  day,  and  Sybil, 
to  her  great  delight,  was  covered  up  from  damage 
by  one  of  Carrots'  blouses.  The  sun  came  out 
bright  and  warm,  and  they  built  the  most  lovely 
sand  house  you  ever  saw. 

"  I'd  like  to  live  in  it  always,"  said  Carrots. 

"  Oh  you  funny  boy,"  said  Sybil  patronisingly, 
"  and  what  would  you  do  at  night,  when  it  got  cold, 
and  perhaps  the  sea  would  come  in." 

"Perhaps  the  mermaids  would  take  care  of  him 
till  the  morning,"  said  Floss. 

"  What  are  the  mermaids  ?  "  asked  Sybil. 

"  Pretty  ladies,"  said  Carrots,  "  who  live  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  only  they've  got  tails." 

44  Then  they  can't  be  pretty,"  said  Sybil  decidedly, 
44  not  unless  their  tails  are  beautiful  and  sweeping 
out,  like  peacocks  !  Are  they  ?  —  one  day  I  tied  a 
shawl  of  mother's  on,  it  was  a  red  and  gold  shawl, 
and  I  sweeped  it  about  just  like  a  peacock,  —  that 
would  be  pretty." 

44 1  don't  think  mermaids'  tails  are  like  that,"  said 
Carrots,  doubtfully,  44but  they  are  pretty  ladies, 
aren't  they,  Floss  ?  " 

44  Beautiful,"  said  Floss,  44  but  they're  very  sad. 
They  come  up  to  the  shore  at  night  and  comb  their 
hair  and  cry  dreadfully." 


100  "  CAHROTS." 

"  What  do  they  cry  for  ?  "  asked  Sybil  and  Carrots, 
pressing  up  to  Floss,  and  forgetting  all  about  the 
lovely  sand  house. 

"  Because  they  —  no,  you  couldn't  understand," 
she  broke  off  ;  "  it  is  no  good  telling  you." 

"  Oh  do  tell,"  said  the  children. 

"  Well,"  said  Floss,  "  I  read  in  a  book  of  Cecil's, 
they  cry  because  they  haven't  got  any  souls.  When 
they  die  they  can't  go  to  heaven,  you  see." 

Sybil  and  Carrots  looked  very  solemn  at  this. 
Then  a  sudden  thought  struck  Carrots. 

"  How  can  they  cry  if  they  haven't  got  souls, 
Floss  ?  "  he  said,  "  nurse  says  it's  our  souls  that  make 
us  glad  and  sorry.  Are  you  sure  the  poor  mermaids 
haven't  got  souls  ?  " 

"  I'm  only  telling  you  what  I  read  in  a  book," 
said  Floss.  "  I  dare  say  it's  all  a  sort  of  fairy  tale. 
Don't  you  like  fairy  tales,  Sybil  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sybil,  "  I  like  stories  of  naughty  boys 
and  girls  best  —  very  naughty  boys  and  girls." 

"  Oh,  Sybil !  "  said  Carrots,  "  I  don't,  because  they 
are  always  unhappy  in  the  end." 

"  No,  they're  not.  Sometimes  they  all  get  good. 
Mother  always  makes  them  get  good  at  the  end," 
replied  Sybil. 

"  Does  auntie  tell  you  stories  ?  "  said  Floss. 

"  Yes,  of  course,  for  I  can't  read  them  to  myself 
yet.  I'm  learning,  but  it  is  so  hard,"  said  Sybil 
dolefully. 


SYBIL.  101 

"  I  wish  auntie  would  tell  us  stories." 

"  P'raps  she  will  when  you  come  to  my  house," 
said  Sybil,  encouragingly.  "  Would  you  think  that 
a  treat  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  a  'normous  treat." 

"  We're  going  to  have  a  treat  to-day,"  said  Floss. 
"  We're  going  to  have  tea  in  the  dining-room  with 
you,  Sybil,  and  auntie  and  everybody,  and  I  think 
it's  time  to  go  in  now,  because  we  must  change  our 
frocks." 

Carrots  had  never  had  tea  in  the  dining-room 
before,  and  felt  a  little  overpowered  by  the  honour. 
He  sat  very  still,  and  took  whatever  was  offered  to 
him,  as  nurse  had  taught  him.  Cecil  poured  out 
the  tea,  and  to  please  the  children  she  put  an  extra 
allowance  of  sugar  into  their  cups.  Carrots  tasted 
his,  and  was  just  thinking  how  very  nice  it  was, 
when  it  flashed  across  his  mind  that  he  should  not 
have  had  any  sugar.  He  put  down  his  cup  and 
looked  Around  him  in  great  perplexity.  If  only  he 
could  ask  Floss.  But  Floss  was  at  the  other  side  of 
the  table,  she  seemed  to  be  drinking  her  tea  without 
any  misgiving.  Wasn't  it  naughty?  Could  she 
have  forgotten?  Carrots  grew  more  and  more 
unhappy;  the  tears  filled  his  eyes,  and  his  face 
got  scarlet. 

"  What's  the  matter,  dear  ? "  said  auntie,  who 
was  sitting  next  him,  "is  your  tea  too  hot?  Has 
it  scalded  your  poor  little  mouth  ?  " 


102  « CARROTS." 

She  said  it  in  a  low  voice.  She  was  so  kind  and 
"  understanding,"  she  knew  Carrots  would  not  have 
liked  everybody  round  the  table  to  begin  noticing 
him,  and  as  she  looked  at  him  more  closely,  she  saw 
that  the  tears  in  his  eyes  were  those  of  distress,  not 
of  "  scalding." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Carrots,  looking  up  in 
auntie's  face  in  his  perplexity;  "it  isn't  that.  My 
tea  is  werry  good,  but  it's  got  sugar  in." 

uAnd  you  don't  like  sugar?  Poor  old  man! 
Never  mind,  Cecil  will  give  you  another  cup. 
You're  not  like  Sybil  in  your  tastes,"  said  auntie, 
kindly,  and  she  turned  to  ask  Cecil  for  some  sugar- 
less tea  for  her  little  brother. 

"No,  no,  auntie.  Oh,  please  don't,"  whispered 
Carrots,  his  trouble  increasing,  and  pulling  hard  at 
his  aunt's  sleeve  as  he  spoke,  "  I  do  like  sugar  werry 
much  —  it  isn't  that.  But  mamma  said  I  was  never, 
never  to  take  nucken  that  wasn't  mine,  and  sugar 
won't  be  mine  for  two  weeks  more,  nurse  sayj." 

Auntie  stared  at  her  little  nephew  in  blank 
bewilderment.  What  did  he  mean?  Even  her 
quick  wits  were  quite  at  fault. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  little  boy  ?  "  she  said. 

Suddenly  a  new  complication  struck  poor  Carrots. 

"  Oh ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  it's  a  secret,  it's  a  secret, 
and  I'm  telling  it,"  and  he  burst  into  tears. 

It  was  impossible  now  to  hide  his  trouble.  Every- 
body began  to  cross-question  him. 


WHAT  ARE  YOU  THINKINU  ABOUT,  MY  POOR  OLD  MAN  ? : 
AUNTIE,  FONDLY.  — p.  103. 


SYBIL.  103 

"Cry-baby,"  muttered  Maurice,  and  even  Mrs. 
Desart  said,  "  Carrots,  I  wonder  at  your  behaving 
so  when  your  aunt  and  cousin  are  here.  Floss,  do 
you  know  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"No,  mamma,"  said  Floss,  looking  as  she  always 
did  when  Carrots  was  in  distress,  ready  to  cry 
herself. 

"  Carrots,"  said  Captain  Desart,  sharply,  "  go  to 
the  nursery  till  you  learn  to  behave  properly." 

Carrots  got  slowly  down  off  his  high  chair,  and 
crept  away.  But  everybody  looked  troubled  and 
uncomfortable. 

Auntie  hated  to  see  people  looking  troubled  and 
uncomfortable.  She  thought  a  minute,  and  then  she 
turned  to  Mrs.  Desart. 

"  Lucy,"  she  said,  "  will  you  let  me  try  what  I  can 
do  with  the  poor  little  fellow  ?  I  am  sure  it  was  not 
naughtiness  made  him  cry." 

And  almost  before  Mrs.  Desart  could  reply,  auntie 
was  off  to  the  nursery  in  search  of  Carrots. 

He  had  left  off  crying,  and  was  sitting  quietly 
by  the  window,  looking  out  at  his  old  friend  the  sea. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  my  poor  old 
man  ?  "  said  auntie,  fondly. 

Carrots  looked  up  at  her.  "  I  like  you  to  call  me 
that,"  he  said.  "  I  was  thinking  about  our  hoops  and- 
what  a  long  time  four  weeks  is." 

"  Has  that  to  do  with  you  having  no  sugar  ? " 
asked  auntie. 


104  "  CARROTS." 

"Yes,"  said  Carrots.  "How  did  you  guess? 
You're  like  a  fairy,  auntie."  But  then  his  face  grew 
troubled  again.  "  I  forgot,"  he  went  on,  "  it's  a 
secret.  It's  Floss's  secret  too.  I  would  so  like  to 
tell  you,  for  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't  mind 
having  no  tea,  but  they  all  thought  I  was  naughty." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  auntie.  She  hurried  out 
of  the  room,  but  was  back  in  a  minute. 

"  I've  asked  Floss,"  she  said,  "  and  she  gives  you 
leave  to  tell  me.  So  now,  perhaps,  when  I  know  all 
about  it,  I  can  tell  you  what  to  do." 

The  telling  did  not  take  Carrots  long ;  he  was  so 
glad  to  show  auntie  he  had  not  meant  to  be  naughty. 
Auntie  listened  quite  gravely,  and  when  he  had  fin- 
ished she  said  she  thought  he  was  quite  right  not  to 
take  any  sugar. 

"But  do  you  think  Floss  did?"  said  Carrots, 
anxiously. 

"  Perhaps  having  tea  in  the  dining-room  made  her 
forget,"  said  auntie.  "  We'll  ask  her  afterwards,  and 
if  she  did  forget,  I'll  tell  you  what  she  must  do.  She 
must  go  without  one  day  longer  than  you.  Now 
come  along  with  me,  and  I'll  make  it  all  right,  you'll 
see." 

When  they  got  back  to  the  dining-room  auntie 
quietly  lifted  Carrots  on  to  his  chair  again,  and  said 
to  his  mamma  with  a  smile,  "  It  was  all  a  mistake ;  I 
thought  it  was ;  Carrots  was  not  naughty  at  all,  and 
he  is  quite  happy  again  now." 


SYBIL.  105 

And  Mrs.  Desart  smiled  too,  so  Carrots  really  did 
feel  happy  again.  But  he  wondered  what  auntie 
would  do  about  the  tea,  which  was -still  standing 
there  as  he  had  left  it,  and  it  would  be  wrong  to 
"  waste  "  it,  thought  Carrots. 

Sybil  was  sitting  on  auntie's  other  side,  and  auntie 
glancing  at  her  cup  saw  that  it  was  empty.  So 
auntie  quietly  put  Carrots'  cup  before  Sybil  and 
gave  Carrots  the  empty  one. 

"  Cecil,"  she  said,  "  will  you  give  Carrots  some  tea 
without  any  sugar  ?  " 

Cecil  saw  that  auntie  had  some  reason  for  asking 
this,  so  she  gave  Carrots  the  tea  as  auntie  said,  and 
Carrots  drank  it  and  ate  his  bread  and  butter  and  a 
piece  of  cake,  with  great  content. 

The  only  person  who  did  not  seem  quite  contented 
was  Sybil. 

"  Mother,"  she  whispered,  "  I  don't  like  having 
Carrots'  tea.  It's  quite  cold." 

But  as  Carrots  didn't  hear  it,  it  didn't  much  mat- 
ter. For  you  see,  Sybil  had  had  one  cup  of  nice  hot 
tea,  so  she  was  not  so  badly  off  after  all. 

And,  alas !  the  very  next  morning  auntie  and 
Sybil  had  to  go  away.  And  the  long  talked-of  and 
fancied-about  visit  was  over. 


CHAPTER    X. 

A   JOURNEY    AND   ITS    ENDING. 

"  The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold." 

SOON  after  auntie's  visit  summer  really  began  to 
come.  It  was  very  pleasant  while  it  lasted,  but  this 
year  it  was  a  very  short  summer,  and  the  winter  that 
came  after  was  a  very  severe  one,  and  made  many 
people  ill.  It  did  not  make  Carrots  ill,  nor  Floss, 
nor  any  of  the  Desart  children,  for  they  were  all 
strong,  but  it  was  very  bad  for  their  mother.  As 
the  winter  went  on,  she  seemed  to  get  weaker  and 
weaker ;  there  were  very  few  days  on  which  she 
could  go  out,  and  if  the  spring  had  not  been  an  early 
and  very  mild  one,  I  hardly  think  her  strength  would 
have  lasted. 

But  with  the  finer  weather  she  seemed  to  get 
better  again.  The  children  were  of  course  very  glad, 
but  still  they  had  not  felt  frightened  by  her  illness. 
It  had  come  on  so  slowly  and  gradually  that  they 
had  got  accustomed  to  it,  as  children  do.  They 
thought  it  was  just  the  cold  wintry  weather  that  had 
made  her  ill,  and  that  when  the  spring  came  she 
would  get  better.  And  when  the  spring  came  and 

106 


A   JOURNEY  AND   ITS   ENDING.  107 

she  did  get  better,  they  were  perfectly  satisfied  and 
happy. 

By  the  end  of  this  summer  Carrots  was  seven  years 
old  —  no  longer  in  the  least  a  baby,  though  he  was 
not  tall  for  his  age.  He  could  read,  of  course,  per- 
fectly, and  write  a  little.  Now  and  then  he  wrote 
little  letters  to  Sybil  in  answer  to  hers,  for  she  was 
very  particular  about  getting  answers.  She  was  only 
just  beginning  to  learn  to  write,  and  sometimes  when 
she  got  tired  of  working  away  at  real  "  A's  "  and 
"  B's  "  and  "  C's  "  in  her  letters,  she  would  dash  off 
into  a  lot  of  "  scribble,"  which  she  said  was  "  chil- 
dren's writing,"  and  "  if  Carrots  didn't  know  what  it 
meant  he  must  be  very  stupid,  as  he  was  a  child  too." 

Carrots  didn't  know  what  it  meant,  but  he  never 
liked  to  say  so,  and  I  dare  say  it  did  not  much  matter. 
But  his  letters  to  Sybil  were  quite  real.  Any  one 
could  have  understood  them. 

Long  ago  Floss  and  he  had  bought  their  hoops. 
They  were  quite  "  old  friends "  now.  They  had 
bought  them  at  the  toy-shop,  just  as  they  had  planned, 
and,  curiously  enough  when  their  mamma  and  nurse 
counted  up  how  much  was  owing  to  them  for  the 
sugar,  it  came  to  exactly  the  price  of  the  hoops. 

But  I  must  tell  you  what  happened  just  about  the 
time  Carrots  had  his  seventh  birthday.  The  summer 
was  nearly  over  again,  and  already  the  cold  winds,  of 
which  there  were  so  many  at  Sandyshore,  were  begin- 
ning to  be  felt.  Floss  noticed  that  her  mother  very 


108  « CARROTS." 

seldom  went  out  now,  and  even  in  the  house  she  gen- 
erally had  to  wrap  herself  up  in  a  shawl. 

"  Mamma,  I  hope  the  cold  weather  isn't  going  to 
make  you  ill  again  ?  "  Floss  said,  one  day  when  she 
and  Carrots  came  in  from  a  race  on  the  sands,  all  hot 
and  rosy  with  running. 

"  I  don't  know,  dear,"  said  her  mother  with  a  little 
sigh. 

"  I  wish  you  could  run  about  like  us.  That  would 
make  you  so  hot,"  said  Carrots. 

Mrs.  Desart  smiled.  Just  then  her  glance  hap- 
pened to  fall  on  Floss's  boots.  "  My  dear  child,"  she 
said,  "those  boots  are  really  not  fit  to  go  out  with. 
There's  a  great  hole  at  the  side  of  one  of  them." 

"I  know,  mamma,"  said  Floss,  "but  they're  going 
to  be  mended.  Nurse  thinks  they'll  do  a  good  while 
longer,  if  they're  mended.  I  hope  they  will,  for  I 
know  you  always  have  so  many  new  things  to  get 
when  winter  begins  to  come  —  haven't  you,  mamma  ?  " 

Mrs.  Desart  sighed  again. 

"  I  should  have  liked  all  your  things  to  be  so  nice," 
she  said,  more  as  if  speaking  to  herself  than  to  Floss, 
"but  it  can't  be  helped." 

Something  in  her  tone  caught  Floss's  attention. 

"  Why,  mamma  ?  "  she  asked,  "  why  did  you  want 
our  things  to  be  so  nice  ?  " 

"Because,  dears,  you  may  be  going  away  from 
home,"  replied  Mrs.  Desart. 

Floss  and  Carrots  stared  with  astonishment.     "  Go- 


A  JOURNEY   AND   ITS   ENDING.  109 

ing  away  from  home,"  Floss  repeated,  utterly  unable 
to  say  more.  Carrots  could  say  nothing  at  all,  he 
could  only  stare. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Mrs.  Desart,  "  I  had  meant  to 
tell  you  all  about  it  before,  but  I  have  kept  putting 
it  off  —  "  she  stopped  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  Why,  mamma  ?  "  said  Floss  again.  "  Don't  you 
like  us  to  go  ?  Are  you  coming  with  us,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Are  we  going  to  auntie's?"  said  Carrots. 

His  asking  this  seemed  to  please  his  mother. 

"You  would  like  to  go  to  auntie's,  wouldn't  you, 
Carrots  ?  "  she  said. 

Carrots  stroked  his  mother's  shawl  up  and  down 
two  or  three  times  before  he  answered. 

"  I'd  like  to  go  if  you  would  come  too,"  he  said 
at  last,  "but  I  think  I  would  rather  stay  at  home, 
thank  you,  if  you  can't  come." 

Mrs.  Desart's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Poor  little 
Carrots !  "  she  said,  softly  smoothing  his  curls  with 
her  hand.  "But  if  it  would  please  me  for  Floss  and 
you  to  go  without  me  ?  "  she  said. 

"I'll  go  if  you  want  me  to  go,  mamma,"  said 
Carrots. 

"  I  must  explain  a  little,"  said  Mrs.  Desart,  and 
then  she  went  on  to  tell  the  children  how  it  was. 
The  doctor  had  said  she  must  not  risk  another  winter 
at  Sandyshore,  and  it  had  been  arranged  for  her  to 
go  to  a  warmer  climate.  Cecil  and  Louise  were  to 
go  with  her ;  Captain  Desart  would  be  with  them  as 


110 

much  as  he  possibly  could,  and  Maurice  was  to  live 
at  school.  And  what  concerned  the  two  little  ones 
almost  more  than  anything,  nurse  was  to  go  too ! 
"I  must  have  some  one  kind  and  sensible  with  me, 
in  case,  in  case  —  "  and  again  Mrs.  Desart  hesitated. 

"In  case  you  were  very  tired  with  travelling,  or 
if  you  were  to  get  a  bad  cold  again  ;  somebody  who 
could  make  nice  white  wine  whey  and  things  like 
that,"  said  Floss,  who  was  of  a  practical  turn  of 
mind,  "oh  yes,  mamma,  I  quite  understand." 

"  Though  nurse  is  getting  old,  she  has  been  so 
much  accustomed  to  travelling,  too,"  said  Mrs. 
Desart,  "  and  we  are  going  a  long  way  —  to  Algeria ; 
Floss,  do  you  know  where  that  is  ?  " 

"  Over  the  sea  !  "  said  Floss,  "  I  wish  we  might 
come  too,  mamma,  Carrots  and  I,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  You  will  be  so  far  away." 

"  But  you  will  be  with  auntie,  and  you  know  how 
kind  auntie  is,"  said  her  mother,  forcing  herself  to 
speak  cheerfully.  "And  it  is  such  a  pretty  place 
where  auntie  lives." 

"  Is  the  sea  there  ?  "  said  Carrots. 

"  No,  but  the  hills  are,"  answered  Mrs.  Desart  with 
a  smile.  "  I  am  quite  sure  you  will  like  it."  And 
she  went  on  to  tell  them  so  much  about  auntie's 
pretty  home  that  for  a  little  they  almost  forgot 
everything  but  the  pleasant  part  of  the  change  that 
was  to  come  so  soon. 

And  it  did  come  very  soon.     It  seemed  but  a  few 


A   JOURNEY   AND   ITS    ENDING.  Ill 

days  from  the  afternoon  they  had  first  heard  about 
it  all,  when  Floss  and  Carrots  found  themselves  early 
one  morning  at  the  little  railway  station  with  their 
father,  waiting  for  the  train. 

Captain  Desart  was  to  travel  with  them  for  the 
first  hour,  to  take  them  to  the  "junction  "  where  they 
were  to  change  and  get  into  a  train  which  would  take 
them  straight  to  Whitefriars,  near  which  was  auntie's 
house. 

You  will  laugh,  children,  I  dare  say,  and  think 
Floss  and  Carrots  very  countrified  and  ignorant 
when  I  tell  you  that  they  had  never  been  a  long 
railway  journey  before.  Never,  that  is  to  say,  that 
they  could  remember  —  for  their  parents  had  come  to 
Sandyshore  when  Floss  was  a  baby,  and  Carrots,  as 
you  know,  had  been  born  there. 

So  you  can  hardly  fancy  what  a  wonderful  event 
this  journey  was  to  them. 

Their  little  hearts  were  very  full  at  first  after  part- 
ing with  their  mother,  and  sisters,  and  nurse,  and  all 
that  made  the  Cove  House  home  to  them. 

And  their  mamma  had  kissed  them  so  many  times, 
as  if  she  could  not  really  say  good-bye,  though  she 
was  not  generally  a  very  petting  or  kissing  mamma, 
but  rather  quiet  and  grave. 

And  nurse  had  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  Louise 
had  them  pouring  down  her  face,  and  Cecil  had  her  face 
squeezed  up  in  a  sort  of  way  that  Floss  knew  meant 
she  was  determined  she  would  not  cry.  Floss  felt 


112 

troubled  in  a  way  she  could  not  understand,  and  I 
think  Carrots  did  too.  They  had  a  feeling  that  the 
bigger  people  knew  of  more  reason  for  sorrow  than 
had  been  told  to  them,  and  yet  they  could  not  im- 
agine what  it  could  be.  And  after  all,  to  them  the 
parting  for  even  four  or  five  months  was  almost  as 
great  a  trouble  as  they  could  understand  !  only  they 
were  going  to  "  auntie's  "  ! 

"  And  we  will  try  to  be  so  good,  dear  mamma," 
said  Floss,  bravely  choking  down  her  tears.  "  We 
will  try  to  get  on  with  our  lessons,  too,  and  write 
you  nice  letters.  And  —  and  —  '  here  a  sob  or 
two  would  make  its  way,  "  I  can't  help  crying  a 
little  ;  but  I'm  sure  we  shall  be  very  happy,  won't 
we,  Carrots  ?  " 

"If  mamma  wants  us  to  be  happy,  we'll  try,  won't 
we,  Floss?"  said  Carrots.  He  wiped  the  tears  on 
his  mother's  cheeks  with  his  own  little  pocket- 
handkerchief  and  looked  up  in  her  face  piteously. 
"  Please  don't  cry,  poor  mamma,"  he  said ;  "  we 
will  be  good  and  happy." 

Then  their  father  came  in  and  hurried  them  off, 
and  the  farewells  were  over  —  that  part  of  them,  at 
least,  for  the  saying  good-bye  to  Captain  Desart  at 
the  junction  was  rather  hard  too. 

And  at  last  Floss  and  Carrots  find  themselves  at 
the  height  of  their  ambition  —  alone  in  a  railway 
carriage  travelling  to  auntie's !  But  they  do  not 
seem  so  delighted  as  they  used  to  fancy  they  would  ; 


A   JOURNEY   AND   ITS   ENDING.  113 

they  do  not  jump  about  and  laugh  and  chatter  in 
their  overflowing  pleasure  —  they  sit  quite  still,  side 
by  side,  holding  each  other's  hands  and  with  little 
quiet  grave  faces. 

"  Things  never  come  the  same  as  people  fancy," 
said  Floss  at  last.  "We  never  thought  we  should 
go  to  auntie's  because  poor  mamma  was  ill,  did  we, 
Carrots  ?  " 

"  No,  we  never  did,"  said  Carrots.  "  But  mamma 
will  soon  get  better,  won't  she,  Floss,  at  that  nice 
warm  place  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course  she  will,"  said  Floss.  "  But 
it's  a  long  way  away,  Carrots,  and  I  never  thought 
going  to  auntie's  would  be  like  this." 

"  No,"  agreed  Carrots  again,  "  we  never  did." 

"I'm  so  sorry  to  leave  them  all,  aren't  you, 
Carrots  ? "  said  Floss,  her  voice  trembling  a  little. 

"  Yes,"  said  Carrots  ;  "  and,  Floss,  I'm  very  sorry, 
too,  to  leave  the  sea.  I  never  left  the  sea  before, 
you  know." 

"But  the  sea  won't  miss  you,"  said  Floss,  "and 
poor  mamma  and  nursie  and  all  of  them  will  miss 
us.  That's  what  I  keep  thinking  of." 

"When  should  we  eat  our  dinner,  Floss?"  said 
Carrots,  with  an  instinct  that  it  would  be  as  well 
to  change  the  subject. 

"Not  just  yet.  When  we've  gone  about  half- 
way would  do ;  and  papa  said  that  great  big  place, 
Millingham,  would  be  about  half-way." 


114  "  CARKOTS." 

"  But  if  there  were  any  other  people  to  get  into 
the  carriage  ?  "  said  Carrots. 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  matter,"  said  Floss.  "  People 
must  eat  when  they  are  travelling." 

"  But  wouldn't  we  have  to  ask  them  to  have  some 
too  ?  "  suggested  Carrots. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Floss;  "I  never  thought 
of  that.  Perhaps  it  would  be  polite.  But  there 
are  only  eight  sandwiches,  Carrots ;  eight  sand- 
wiches and  four  sponge  cakes  and  a  packet  of 
Albert  biscuits.  I  hope  a  great  many  people  won't 
get  in." 

No  one  got  in  at  the  next  station.  Only  the 
guard  put  his  head  in  at  the  door,  as  Captain 
Desart  had  asked  him  to  do,  to  see  how  the  little 
pair  were  getting  on.  Carrots  had  thoughts  of  offer- 
ing him  a  sandwich,  but  he  disappeared  before  there 
was  time  to  do  so,  which  Floss  thought  very  fortu- 
nate when  she  heard  of  Carrots'  intention.  "For 
you  see,"  she  said,  "  if  we  began  offering  them  to 
him,  we  would  have  to  do  it  at  every  station,  and  if 
there  are  eight  stations  before  Whitefriars,  all  our 
sandwiches  would  be  gone." 

"  He  might  have  a  biscuit  for  a  change,"  said 
Carrots,  submissive,  but  scarcely  convinced.  "  He 
is  a  nice  man,  Floss  —  he  calls  us  '  Well,  sir,'  and 
;  Miss.'  Do  you  think  papa  told  him  to  say  '  Well, 
sir,' and 'Miss'?" 

But  before  Floss  had   time   to   answer   they  had 


A  JOUKNEY   AND   ITS   ENDING.  115 

stopped  again,  and  this  time  some  one  did  get 
into  their  carriage.  The  new-comer  was  a  small, 
neat,  oldish  lady.  She  looked  rather  grim  at  first, 
but  after  a  while  she  grew  decidedly  friendly,  and 
no  wonder;  for  at  Millingham,  Floss  and  Carrots 
unpacked  their  little  basket  of  provisions,  and  I 
don't  think  the  grimmest  of  maiden  ladies  could 
have  remained  grim  after  the  politeness  with  which 
the  children  treated  her. 

They  selected  the  nicest-looking  sandwich,  putting 
it  on  an  Albert  biscuit  by  way  of  a  plate,  and  then, 
at  a  sign  from  Floss,  Carrots  clambered  down  from 
his  seat  and  gravely  offered  it  to  the  lady. 

"  I'm  sorry  there's  no  mustard,  if  you  like  mus- 
tard," said  Floss ;  "  but  Carrots  and  I  don't  like 
it,  and  —  and  —  I  suppose  nurse  didn't  think  of  any 
one  else." 

The  oldish  lady  looked  at  the  children  for  a 
moment  before  she  replied. 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said  at 
last,  "but  I  think  I  won't  take  a  sandwich,  as  I 
had  luncheon  before  I  left  home.  But  if  you  will 
allow  me  I  will  have  a  biscuit.  I  am  very  fond 
of  biscuits." 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  said  Floss,  hospitably.  "  Now, 
Carrots,"  she  said  in  a  lower  voice,  uyou  eat  two 
sandwiches  and  I'll  eat  two,  and  we'll  each  have 
one  sponge  cake.  And  that'll  do  for  dinner.  We'll 
eat  the  rest  in  about  an  hour  and  pretend  we're 
having  tea  early." 


116  "  CARKOTS."        , 

The  lady  asked  them  a  good  many  questions 
after  this,  and  told  them  they  were  such  well-be- 
haved children,  she  would  not  mind  travelling  all 
the  way  to  Whitefriars  with  them.  Floss  blushed 
a  little  at  this ;  it  made  her  feel  shy  to  be  praised 
to  her  face,  but  still  no  doubt  the  lady  meant  it 
kindly,  and  they  were  rather  sorry  when  she  left 
them,  some  stations  before  they  got  to  Whitefriars. 
Their  old  friend  the  guard  left  them  here,  too, 
but  he  popped  his  head  in  for  the  last  time  to 
say  that  he  was  going  to  speak  for  them  to  "him 
that  was  coming  on  now."  And  Floss  thanked 
him,  though  she  had  not  the  least  idea  what  he 
meant. 

But  there  must  have  been  some  mistake  about 
it,  for  the  new  guard  never  came  near  them,  and 
when,  at  the  last  stoppage  before  Whitefriars,  an- 
other man  threw  the  door  open  and  demanded 
"  tickets,"  Floss  felt  too  startled  by  his  rough  man- 
ner to  ask  him  what  they  were  longing  to  know, 
how  far  they  still  had  to  go.  But  he  took  away 
the  tickets.  "  So  we  can't  have  very  far  to  go," 
said  Floss.  "  Papa  said  they  would  take  away  the 
tickets  a  little  before  we  got  to  Whitefriars." 

"  Will  auntie  be  at  the  station  ?  "  said  Carrots. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  she  will,"  said  Floss.  "Auntie 
and  Sybil  too,  perhaps.  Carrots,  I  do  believe  we're 
there  ;  the  train's  stopping." 

And   in   another  minute   they   found   themselves 


A  JOURNEY  AND   ITS   ENDING.  117 

in  a  nice  clean-looking  station  with  several  people 
standing  about  on  the  platform,  evidently  waiting 
for  the  train. 

The  children  looked  out  eagerly.  There  were 
two  or  three  ladies,  one  little  girl,  and  a  few  other 
people  —  but  no  auntie,  no  Sybil ! 

"  P'raps  this  isn't  the  place,"  said  Carrots. 

"  Please,  is  this  Whitefriars  ?  "  inquired  Floss  of  a 
porter  who  just  then  threw  open  the  door. 

"  Whitefriars,  yes,  miss.     Any  lugguge  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Floss  anxiously,  "a  great  deal. 
It's  in  one  of  the  luggage  carriages,  and  it's  marked 
with  our  name." 

The  man  smiled.  "  Will  you  come  with  me, 
missie,  and  show  me  which  it  is,  and  I'll  get  it  all 
right  for  you." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Floss,  gathering  together 
their  cloaks  and  baskets,  and  preparing  to  de- 
scend. 

"  What  a  kind  man,"  whispered  Carrots ;  and 
when  the  porter  lifted  him  out  of  the  carriage  he 
took  hold  of  his  hand  and  ran  along  beside  him  as 
fast  as  his  little  legs  could  keep  up. 

Floss  felt  quite  bewildered  at  first,  when  she  saw 
the  heaps  and  heaps  of  luggage  lying  on  the  plat- 
form, all  labelled  "Whitefriars."  It  seemed  to  her 
that  everybody  must  have  been  travelling  to  White- 
friars to-day!  But  by  degrees  it  was  claimed 
and  melted  away,  and  the  kind  porter,  to  whom 


118  "CABKOTS." 

she  had  already  pointed  out  their  "  great  deal " 
one  portmanteau,  one  bag,  and  a  small  tin  hat-box 
—  soon  picked  it  up  and  stood  waiting  for  further 
orders. 

"  Where  am  I  to  take  it  to,  please,  miss  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Is  there  no  one  here  to  meet  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  so,  I  don't  know  what  to  do," 
said  Floss,  looking  sadly  troubled  again.  In  the 
excitement  of  rinding  the  luggage  she  had  for- 
gotten this  new  difficulty,  but  now  it  returned  in 
full  force. 

"  Have  you  far  to  go  ?  "  said  the  man. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Floss,  "  auntie's  house  is  near  here, 
I  know." 

"Then  perhaps  little  master  and  you  had  better 
walk  on,  and  send  for  the  luggage  afterwards  ? " 
suggested  the  man,  never  doubting  from  Floss's 
manner  that  the  children  were  accustomed  to  the 
place,  and  knew  their  way. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Floss  uncertainly. 

"  Or  shall  I  fetch  you  a  fly  from  the  Blue  Boar  ?  " 
said  the  man.  "  The  station  flies  has  all  drove 
off." 

"No,  thank  you;  I  don't  think  I  have  enough 
money  for  that,"  said  Floss,  feeling  in  her  pocket 
for  her  purse,  which  she  knew  contained  only  her 
father's  parting  gift  of  half-a-crown,  a  sixpence 
with  a  hole  in  it,  and  three  pennies  of  Carrots ' ! 
"  Your  auntie  says  she  will  get  you  everything  you 


A  JOURNEY   AND   ITS  ENDING.  119 

want,  so  I  need  not  give  you  any  money  with 
you,"  their  mother  had  said.  Floss  had  no  idea 
what  a  fly  from  the  Blue  Boar  would  cost,  but  it 
sounded  very  grand,  and  she  hardly  dared  to  risk 
it. 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  you'll  be  safest  to  walk,"  said 
the  porter,  rather  afraid  of  getting  himself  into  a 
scrape  if  he  fetched  the  children  a  fly  without  proper 
authority,  and  feeling  uncertain,  from  their  very 
plain  and  rather  "  countrified  "  appearance,  if  their 
friends  belonged  to  the  fly  patronising  class  or  not. 
"  I'll  keep  the  luggage  safe  till  it's  sent  for  —  no 
fear,"  and  with  a  friendly  nod  he  marched  off  with 
their  possessions. 

Holding  Carrots  by  the  hand,  Floss  made  her 
way  out  of  the  station.  For  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  the  road  ran  straight  before  them  and  they 
trudged  along  contentedly  enough.  But  after 
awhile  they  came  to  a  point  where  two  roads  met, 
one  leading  to  the  little  watering-place  (for  the  station 
was  some  way  from  the  town),  the  other  out  into 
the  country.  And  for  the  first  time  it  struck  Floss 
that  she  did  not  know  the  way.  She  looked  about 
her  in  perplexity. 

'.'  It  cannot  be  far,"  she  said ;  "  mamma  always 
said  auntie  lived  near  White  friars.  But  I  wish  I 
knew  which  way  to  go." 

Carrots  had  no  suggestion  to  offer.  To  make 
matters  worse,  it  began  to  rain  —  a  cold,  sleety,  late 


120  "CARROTS." 

October  rain ;  the  children  had  no  umbrella,  and 
were  already  tired  and  hungry.  I  think  it  was 
much  to  their  credit  that  they  did  not  lose  heart 
altogether. 

Just  as  Floss  was  making  up  her  mind  to  take  the 
turn  leading  in  the  distance  to  terraces  of  houses  and 
gardens  and  other  signs  of  civilisation,  there  came, 
jogging  along  the  road  on  a  cart-horse,  a  farmer's 
boy.  Joyful  sight !  Floss  plucked  up  heart. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  please,"  she  called  out,  "  which 
is  the  way  to  Greenmays  ?  " 

The  farmer's  boy  turned  his  thumb  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  country  road.  "  Yonder,"  he  shouted, 
without  stopping  in  his  jog,  "straight  on  past  the 
church,  and  down  lane  to  left." 

"Is  it  far?"  asked  Floss,  but  the  boy  did  not 
seem  to  hear. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  on  with  their 
trudge.  The  rain  was  not  heavy  but  very  piercingly 
cold,  and  the  daylight  was  beginning  to  fade.  Two 
or  three  hot  tears  at  last  forced  their  way  down 
Floss's  cheeks,  but  she  wiped  them  quickly  away, 
before  Carrots  could  see  them.  Carrots  said  nothing, 
but  Floss  knew  he  was  getting  tired  by  the  way  he 
kept  lagging  behind,  every  now  and  then  giving  a 
little  run  to  get  up  to  Floss  again. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  so  much,  Floss,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  if  it  would  be  home  when  we  get  there,  and  if  we 
were  to  find  mamma  and  nurse  and  tea  in  our  own 
nursery  waiting  for  us." 


A  JOUKNEY   AND   ITS   ENDING.  121 

This  was  altogether  too  much  for  Floss.  For  a 
moment  or  two  she  could  not  speak,  she  was  choked 
with  sobs.  "  Oh,  how  I  do  wish  poor  mamma  hadn't 
got  ill,"  she  said  at  last. 

44  Poor  Flossie,  dear  Flossie,"  said  Carrots,  pulling 
down  her  face  to  kiss  in  spite  of  the  rain  and  the 
dark  and  the  cold  and  everything.  "  I  didn't  mean 
to  make  you  cry.  And  auntie  will  be  very  kind 
when  we  get  there,  won't  she,  Floss?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Floss,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully, 
though  in  her  secret  heart  there  was  a  little  misgiv- 
ing. It  did  not  look  very  kind  not  to  have  sent  to 
meet  them  at  the  station,  and  even  without  this, 
Floss,  though  she  had  not  said  so,  had  felt  a  little 
shy  and  frightened  at  the  thought  of  meeting  auntie 
and  the  strange  uncle,  and  even  Sybil  again.  It  was 
nearly  two  years  since  the  visit  to  Sandyshore,  and 
two  years  is  a  lifetime  to  a  child  —  it  seemed  to 
Floss  like  going  altogether  among  strangers.  She 
clasped  her  little  brother's  hand  tighter  as  these 
feelings  passed  through  her  mind.  "  It  won't  be  so 
bad  for  Carrots,"-  she  reflected;  "anyway  he  will 
have  me." 

They  seemed  to  have  walked  a  very  weary  way 
when  at  last  the  church,  of  which  the  farmer's  boy 
had  spoken,  came  in  sight  —  very  dimly  in  sight,  for 
the  daylight  was  fast  dying  away.  Floss  would  have 
passed  the  church  without  noticing  it,  but  the  road 
divided  in  two  just  at  this  place,  and  she  was  obliged 


122 

to  think  which  way  to  go.  Then  the  boy's  directions 
came  into  her  mind. 

"  To  the  left  past  the  church,  didn't  he  say, 
Carrots?"  she  said. 

"  4  Down  lane  to  left,'  he  said,"  replied  Carrots. 

"Then  it  must  be  this  way,"  said  Floss,  and  on 
they  trudged. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  came  to  large  gates,  on  one 
side  of  which  stood  a  pretty  little  house ;  but  such  a 
little  house,  hardly  bigger  than  a  cottage. 

"  Is  that  auntie's  house  ?  "  said  Carrots. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  too  little  to  be  auntie's  house," 
said  Floss.  "  I  wish  it  was.  I  would  much  rather 
auntie  lived  in  a  cottage." 

"  Just  like  Mrs.  White's,"  said  Carrots. 

Floss  could  not  help  laughing  at  him ;  it  had  left 
off  raining  and  her  spirits  were  rising  a  little. 

"  Look,  Carrots,"  she  said,  "  there  is  a  light  in  the 
cottage  window.  We'd  better  knock  at  the  door 
and  ask  if  it  is  auntie's  house.  It's  getting  rather 
like  a  fairy  story,  isn't  it,  Carrots  ?.  Fancy  if  some- 
body calls  out  'Pull  the  string  and  the  latch  will 
open.'  " 

"  But  that  would  be  the  wolf,  Floss,"  said  Carrots, 
pressing  closer  to  his  sister. 

It  was  no  wolf,  but  a  nice,  tidy-looking  woman 
with  a  white  cap  and  a  baby  in  her  arms  who 
opened  the  door,  and  stood  staring  at  the  two  little 
wayfarers  in  bewilderment.  Floss  grew  afraid  that 
she  was  angry. 


A  JOURNEY   AND   ITS   ENDING.  123 

• 

"I'm  very  sorry — I  mean  I  beg  your  pardon," 
she  began.  "I  didn't  know  this  was  your  house. 
We  thought  perhaps  it  was  auntie's.  Can  you  tell 
me,  please,  where  Greenmays  is  ?  " 

"  This  is  Greenmays,"  said  the  woman.  Floss 
stared :  the  door  opened  right  into  the  kitchen,  it 
couldn't  be  auntie's  house. 

"  This  is  the  lodge,"  continued  the  woman.  "  If 
it's  some  one  at  the  big  house  you're  wanting,  you 
must  just  go  straight  up  the  drive.  I'd  show  you 
the  way,"  she  went  on,  "  but  my  husband's  up 
at  the  stables  and  it's  too  cold  for  baby.  You 
seem  wet  and  tired,  you  do  —  have  you  come 
far?" 

uYes,"  said  Floss,  wearily,  "very  far.  We 
thought  auntie  would  meet  us  at  the  station,  but 
there  wasn't  anybody." 

"  They  must  be  kin  to  the  housekeeper,  surely," 
thought  the  woman.  And  yet  something  inde- 
scribable in  Floss's  manner,  and  in  the  clear,  well- 
bred  tones  of  her  small,  childish  voice,  prevented 
her  asking  if  this  was  so.  "  I  wish  I  could  go  with 
you  to  the  house,"  she  repeated,  curiosity  and 
kindliness  alike  prompting  her,  "  but,"  she  added, 
looking  doubtfully  at  the  sleeping  child  in  her 
arms,  "  I'm  afeared  for  baby." 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,  thank  you,"  said  Floss, 
"  we  can  find  the  way,  I  dare  say.  Good-evening," 
and  taking  Carrots  by  the  hand,  she  turned  to  go. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  little  Carrots  also. 


124  "  CAKKOTS." 

"  Good-evening,  and  I  hope  you'll  find  your 
auntie  in,"  said  the  woman.  And  for  a  few  minutes 
she  stood  at  the  door  straining  her  eyes  after  the 
two  forlorn  little  figures  till  she  could  distinguish 
them  no  longer  in  the  darkness  of  the  trees  bordering 
the  avenue.  "  Who  can  they  be  ?  "  she  said  to  her- 
self. "  Such  a  pretty  spoken,  old-fashioned  little 
pair  I  never  did  see  I " 


CHAPTER   XL 

HAPPY  AND   SAD. 

"  'Tis  gone  —  and  in  a  merry  fit 

They  run  upstairs  in  gamesome  race. 
****** 
A  moment's  heaviness  they  feel, 
A  sadness  at  the  heart." 

THE  MOTHER'S  KETURN. 

IT  was  very  dark  in  the  drive,  and  Carrots  crept 
close  to  Floss.  But  Floss  felt  far  less  afraid  of 
the  dark  than  of  the  light !  when  at  last  the  house 
came  in  view  and  the  brightly  lit  up  windows  shone 
out  into  the  gloom. 

"  Oh,  what  a  big  house,"  said  Floss.  "  Oh 
Carrots,  how  I  do  wish  that  little  cottage  had  been 
auntie's  house,  even  though  the  door  did  open  right 
into  the  kitchen.  Don't  you,  Carrots  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Carrots,  "  auntie  will  be 
very  kind  to  us,  won't  she,  Floss  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Floss,  "  but  supposing  she  is 
having  a  party  to-night,  Carrots  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  could  have  tea  in  the  nursery,  and 
go  to  bed,"  said  Carrots  philosophically.  "  Oh 
Floss,  wouldn't  you  like  some  nice  hot  tea  and 
bread  and  butter?" 

125 


126  « CARROTS." 

"Poor  Carrots,"  said  Floss.  And  her  anxiety 
to  see  her  little  brother  in  comfort  again  gave  her 
courage  to  ring  the  bell  as  loudly  as  she  could. 

A  man  servant  opened  the  door.  Very  tall  and 
formidable  he  looked  to  the  two  children,  whose 
eyes  were  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  after  their 
long  walk  in  the  dusk. 

"If  you  please,"  "said  Floss,  "is  auntie  at 
home?" 

The  man  stared.  "What  did  you  say?"  he 
inquired.  "  Is  it  a  message  from  some  one  ?" 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Floss,  "it's  just  that  we've  come, 
Carrots  and  I  —  will  you  please  tell  auntie  ?  We've 
walked  all  the  way  from  the  station,  because  there 
was  no  one  to  meet  us." 

The  man  still  stared.  He  had  heard  something 
about  a  young  lady  and  gentleman,  his  mistress's 
nephew  and  niece,  being  expected  on  a  visit,  but 
his  ideas  were  rather  slow.  He  could  not  all  at 
once  take  in  that  the  dilapidated  little  couple 
before  him  could  possibly  be  the  looked  for 
guests. 

But  just  then  another  person  came  upon  the 
scene.  A  little  figure  with  bright  dark  eyes  and 
flying  hair  came  dancing  into  the  hall. 

"Who's  there,  Fletcher?"  she  said.  "Is  it  the 
post?" 

"No,  miss,"  said  Fletcher,  rather  glad  of  some 
one  to  consult  in  his  perplexity.  "  I  don't  know 


"IT  is  FLOSSIE  AND  MB,  SYBIL  — DON'T  YOU  REMEMBER  us?" 

p.  127. 


HAPPY  AND   SAD.  127 

who  it  is  —  that's  to  say,  it's  a  little  boy  and  girl 
who  say  as  they've  come  from  the  station,  but  I 
can't  justly  make  out  who  it  is  they  want." 

"  How  funny,"  said  Sybil,  coming  forward  and 
peering  our  from  under  Fletcher's  arm,  "perhaps 
they'll  tell  me  what  they  want.  Who  are  you,  little 
girl?  Is  it  my  mother  you  want?  Will  you  give 
me  your  message  ?  " 

She  looked  more  like  a  little  princess  than  ever. 
She  was  dressed  to  go  down  to  the  drawing-room 
before  dinner  —  all  white  embroidery  and  lace  and 
rose-coloured  ribbons.  Floss  and  Carrots  looked 
at  her  with  a  sort  of  dazzled  admiration,  mingled 
with  shy  bewilderment.  It  all  seemed  more  of  a 
mistake  than  ever  —  Sybil  was  evidently  not  expect- 
ing them  —  if  only  the  railway  station  had  not  been 
so  dreadfully  far  away,  Floss  felt  as  if  she  would 
have  liked  to  take  Carrots  by  the  hand  and  go 
away  back  again,  all  the  long  weary  way  to  Sandy- 
shore  ! 

But  Carrots'  faith  in  auntie  and  Sybil  was  un- 
shaken —  and  his  childlike  confidence  less  susceptible 
of  chill.  Partly  from  mortification,  partly  to  hide 
that  she  was  crying,  Floss  stood  perfectly  silent,  but 
Carrots  pressed  forward. 

"  It  is  Flossie  and  me,  Sybil  —  don't  you  re- 
member us?  We've  walked  such  a  long  way,  and 
there  was  nobody  to  meet  us  at  the  station,  and  we 
are  so  cold  and  so  hungry !  " 


128  "  CARROTS." 

Sybil  gave  a  sort  of  leap  into  the  air.  "  Floss 
and  Carrots  !  "  she  cried,  "  oh  mother,  mother,  come 
quick,  here  are  Floss  and  Carrots !  " 

She  seemed  to  fly  across  the  hall  in  one  second, 
and  darting  down  a  passage  disappeared,  crying  out 
all  the  way,  "  Flossie  and  Carrots  —  oh  mother, 
mother,  come." 

And  before  the  children  had  time  to  consider 
what  they  had  best  do,  and  long  before  the  very 
deliberate  Mr.  Fletcher  had  collected  his  wits  suffi- 
ciently to  decide  upon  inviting  them  to  come  in, 
Sybil  was  back  again,  closely  followed  by  her  mother, 
whom  she  had  dragged  out  of  the  drawing-room 
without  any  other  explanation  than  her  cry  of  "  Floss 
and  Carrots,  oh  mother,  Flossie  and  Carrots." 

And  when  Floss  saw  auntie  running  to  them, 
with  her  kind  face  all  eagerness  and  anxiety,  the 
shyness  and  the  disappointment  and  the  mortification 
all  seemed  suddenly  to  melt  away.  She  rushed  into 
the  hall  and  threw  herself  sobbing  into  auntie's 
arms.  "  Oh  auntie,"  she  cried,  "  we  are  so  tired  — 
poor  Carrots  is  I  mean,  and  so  hungry,  and  I  thought 
you  had  forgotten  us,  and  we're  so  far  away  from 
mamma." 

Auntie  understood  all  about  it  in  a  moment.  She 
hugged  Floss  tight,  and  only  let  go  of  her  for  an 
instant  to  get  hold  of  Carrots  and  hug  him  tight  too. 
And  then,  when  she  saw  the  two  tired  little  white 
faces,  and  felt  how  wet  they  were,  and  saw  the  tears 


HAPPY   AND   SAD.  129 

on  Floss's  cheeks,  she  sat  down  on  the  hall  floor,  still 
clasping  them  tight,  and  actually  cried  too. 

"  My  two  poor  dear  little  babes  in  the  wood,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  What  a  dreadful  mistake  !  What  a 
cruel  auntie  you  must  have  thought  me  !  " 

"  I  didn't  know  if  you  wanted  us  —  I  thought 
perhaps  you  had  forgotten  about  us  coming,"  whis- 
pered Floss. 

"  No  wonder,"  said  auntie  ;  "  but  Flossie,  darling, 
I  haven't  got  any  letter  to  say  what  day  you  were 
coming.  That  was  why  we  were  not  at  the  station. 
Sybil  and  I  had  been  making  such  delightful  plans 
about  how  we  should  meet  you  at  the  station  —  do 
you  think  your  father  and  mother  could  have  for- 
gotten to  write  to  tell  me  the  day  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Floss,  "  I  know  papa  wrote  to  tell 
you  —  he  wrote  the  day  before  yesterday,  for  I  heard 
him  tell  mamma  so.  And  this  morning  when  the 
post  came,  just  as  we  were  leaving,  he  wondered  a 
little  that  there  was  no  letter  from  you,  but  he  said 
perhaps  you  hadn't  thought  it  worth  while  to  write, 
as  you  had  said  any  day  this  week  would  do  for  us 
to  come." 

"  Of  course  I  would  have  written,"  said  auntie ; 
"  but  what  can  have  become  of  the  letter  ?  " 

It  had  evidently  gone  astray  somehow,  and  that 
very  evening  the  mystery  was  explained,  for  the 
postman  brought  it  —  a  very  travel-worn  letter  in- 
deed, with  two  or  three  scrawls  across  it  in  red  ink 


130 

-  "  Missent  to  Whitehurst,"  "  Try  Whitefield,"  etc., 
etc. 

"  Whenever  a  letter  does  go  wrong,  which  certainly 
is  not  very  often,  it  is  sure  to  be  one  of  consequence," 
said  auntie.  But  long  before  the  letter  came  Floss 
and  Carrots  had  forgotten  their  troubles  —  at  least  if 
they  hadn't  it  was  not  auntie's  fault,  for  I  can't  tell 
you  how  kind  she  was  and  what  a  fuss  she  made 
about  them.  She  took  them  up  to  Sybil's  nice  beau- 
tiful warm  nursery,  and  all  their  wet  things  were 
taken  off,  and  Floss  was  wrapped  up  in  a  dressing- 
gown  of  auntie's  and  Carrots  in  one  of  Sybil's,  and 
then  they  had  the  most  lovely  tea  you  can  imagine. 

Sybil's  father  was  away  that  night  and  was  not 
coming  back  till  the  next  day,  and  auntie  was  to 
have  dinner  alone,  with  Sybil  beside  her,  you  may  be 
sure,  to  "keep  her  company,"  and  help  her  to  get 
through  dinner  by  opening  her  little  mouth  for 
"  tastes  "  every  now  and  then.  But  auntie  had  to 
manage  alone,  after  all,  for  of  course  Sybil  would 
not  leave  Floss  and  Carrots,  and  auntie  sent  up  the 
very  nicest  things  from  the  dining-table  for  the  chil- 
dren to  eat  with  their  tea,  and  Sybil  did  get  some 
"  tastes,"  I  can  assure  you. 

And  they  laughed  at  each  other  in  the  dressing- 
gowns,  and  Floss  quite  forgot  that  she  had  expected 
to  feel  shy  and  strange.  Only  when  auntie  came  up 
to  the  nursery  again  after  dinner  and  made  Floss  tell 
her  all  about  the  long  walk  in  the  cold  and  the  dark, 


HAPPY    AND   SAD.  131 

and  about  the  "  kind  porter,"  and  the  oldish-looking 
lady,  and,  further  back  still,  about  the  leaving  home 
in  the  morning  and  how  poor  mamma  kissed  them 
"  so  many,  many  times  "  —  Floss  could  not  help 
crying  again  a  little,  nor  could  auntie  either.  And 
though  Carrots  and  Sybil  did  not  cry,  their  little 
faces  looked  very  solemn  and  as  if  they  almost 
thought  they  should  cry,  as  they  sat  side  by  side  on 
the  rug  in  front  of  the  high  nursery  guard,  Carrots 
in  the  funny  red-flannel  dressing-gown  which  made 
him  look  so  "  old  fashioned,"  and  Sybil  in  her  white 
embroidery  and  rose  ribbons,  crumpling  them  all  up 
"  anyhow "  in  a  way  which  really  went  to  Floss's 
heart,  though  auntie  did  not  seem  to  mind. 

Then  came  bed-time.  Such  a  nice  bed-time,  for 
auntie  had  prepared  for  them  two  dear  little  rooms, 
with  a  door  between,  that  they  should  not  feel  far 
away  from  each  other.  And  though  it  was  the  very 
first  time  in  Carrots'  life  that  he  had  gone  to  bed 
without  kind  old  nurse  to  tuck  him  up,  he  did  not  feel 
unhappy,  for  Floss  reminded  him  what  a  good  thing 
it  was  that  their  mother  had  nurse  with  her  now  she 
was  ill,  and  besides,  Sybil's  French  maid  Denise  was 
very  kind  and  merry,  and  not  at  all  "  stuck  up  "  or 
grand. 

And  the  waking  the  next  morning ! 

Who  does  not  know  those  first  wakings  in  a  strange 
place  !  Sometimes  so  pleasant,  sometimes  so  sad,  but 
never,  I  think,  without  a  strange  interestingness  of 


132  "CARROTS." 

their  own.  This  waking  was  pleasant,  though  so 
strange.  The  sun  was  shining  for  one  thing  —  a 
great  thing,  I  think  I  should  call  it,  and  the  children 
felt  it  to  be  so. 

They  woke  about  the  same  time  and  called  out 
to  each  other,  and  then  Floss  got  out  of  bed  and 
went  to  see  how  Carrots  was  looking,  after  all  his 
adventures. 

"You  haven't  caught  cold  I  hope,  Carrots,"  she 
said  in  a  motherly  tone. 

"  Oh  no.  I'm  quite  well,"  replied  Carrots,  "  I 
haven't  even  a  cold  in  my  nose.  And  isn't  it  a  nice 
morning,  Floss,  and  isn't  this  a  lovely  room  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Floss,  "  and  so  is  mine,  Carrots." 

"  And  auntie  is  kind,  isn't  she,  Floss  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very"  said  Floss. 

"Isn't  it  nice  to  see  the  sun?"  said  Carrots. 
"  Floss,  I  can't  understand  how  it  can  always  be 
the  same  sun,  however  far  we  go." 

"But  don't  you  remember  what  I  showed  you," 
said  Floss,  "  about  the  world  being  like  a  little  ball, 
always  going  round  and  round  a  great  light,  so  of 
course  the  great  light  must  always  be  the  same  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Carrots  dreamily,  "but  still  it  seems 
funny.  Will  mamma  see  the  sun  at  that  nice  warm, 
place  over  the  sea  ?  " 

"  Why  of  course,"  said  Floss,  "  it's  the  sun  that 
makes  that  place  nice  and  warm." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Carrots.  "  Is  that  place  nearer  the 
sun  than  Sandyshore  is,  Floss?  " 


HAPPY   AND   SAD.  133 

"  No,  not  exactly.  At  least  it  is  in  a  sort  of  a  way 
—  the  sunshine  falls  straighter  on  it,  but  I  couldn't 
explain  without  a  globe  and  a  lot  of  fuss,"  said  Floss. 
"  Never  mind  just  now,  Carrots  —  perhaps  auntie  can 
show  you." 

"  But  Floss,"  persisted  Carrots,  "  I  do  want  to 
know  one  thing.  Shall  we  see  the  sun  in  heaven  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Floss  decidedly,  "  certainly  not.  It 
says  in  the  Bible  there  will  be  no  sun  or  moon  in 
heaven." 

"  Then  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  it  at  all,"  said 
Carrots,  "  for  there  won't  be  any  sea  there  either.  I 
can't  think  how  it  can  be  a  nice  place." 

"  Bat,  Carrots  dear,"  said  Floss  in  some  distress, 
"you  mustn't  think  of  heaven  that  way.  It  isn't 
like  that.  Heaven  isn't  like  a  place  exactly,  mamma 
says.  It  is  just  being  quite  good." 

"  Being  quite  good,"  repeated  Carrots  thoughtfully. 
"  I  wish  I  could  be  quite  good,  Floss,  I  wish  every- 
body could,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Floss.  "  But  really  you  must  get  up, 
Carrots  dear  ;  that  will  be  good  for  just  now.  Being 
good  always  comes  in  little  bits  like  that.  " 

"  But  in  heaven,  the  being  good  will  be  all  in  one 
great  big  piece,  that's  how  it  will  be,  isn't  it  ?  "  said 
Carrots,  as  he  got  out  of  bed  and  began  hunting  for 
his  slippers. 

I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  history  of  that  first  day 
at  Greenmays,  or  of  many  others  that  followed.  They 


134  "  CARROTS." 

were  very  happy  days,  and  they  were  full  of  so  many 
new  pleasures  and  interests  for  Carrots  and  Floss 
that  I  should  really  have  to  write  another  book  to 
tell  you  all  about  them.  Everybody  was  kind  to  the 
children,  and  everything  that  could  be  thought  of  to 
make  them  feel  "at  home"  was  done.  And  Green- 
mays  was  such  a  pretty  place  —  Carrots  could  hardly 
miss  his  dear  old  sea,  once  he  had  learnt  to  make 
friends  with  the  hills.  At  first  he  could  do  nothing 
but  gaze  at  them  in  astonishment. 

"  I  didn't  think  hills  were  so  big,  or  that  they 
would  have  so  many  faces,"  he  said  to  Floss  and 
Sybil  the  first  morning  when  they  were  out  in  the 
garden  together. 

Sybil  burst  out  laughing.  "Oh  you  funny  Car- 
rots ! "  she  said ;  "  you're  just  like  a  boy  in  a  fairy 
story  —  you've  got  such  queer  fancies." 

"  But  they're  not  fancies,  Sybil,"  said  Carrots, 
gravely,  turning  his  great  brown  eyes  on  his  cousin. 
"  The  hills  have  got  lots  of  different  faces :  that  one 
up  there,  the  one  with  the  round  knobby  top,  has 
looked  quite  different  several  times  this  morning. 
First  it  looked  smiley  and  smooth,  and  then  it  got 
all  cross  and  wrinkly,  and  now  it  looks  as  if  it  was 
going  to  sleep." 

Sybil  stared  up  at  the  hill  he  was  pointing  to.  "  I 
see  what  you  mean,"  she  said;  "but  it's  only  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds." 

"  That's   pretty,"   said   Carrots :    "  who   told   you 


HAPPY   AND    SAD.  185 

that,  Sybil?  I  never  thought  of  clouds  having 
shadows." 

"  Nobody  told  me,"  said  Sybil ;  "  I  finded  it  out 
my  own  self.  I  find  out  lots  of  things,"  she  con- 
tinued, importantly.  "I  dare  say  it's  because  of  my 
name  —  papa  says  my  name  means  I  should  find  out 
things,  like  a  sort  of  a  fairy,  you  know." 

"  Does  it?"  said  Carrots,  in  a  rather  awe-struck 
tone.  "  I  should  like  that.  When  you  were  little, 
Sybil,"  he  continued,  "  were  you  ever  frightened  of 
shadows?  /was." 

"  No,"  said  Sybil,  "  I  only  thought  they  were 
funny.  And  once  papa  told  me  a  story  of  a  shadow 
that  ran  away  from  its  master.  It  went  across  the 
street,  at  night,  you  know,  when  the  lamps  were 
lighted:  there  were  houses  opposite,  you  see,  and 
the  shadow  went  into  such  a  beautiful  house,  and 
wouldn't  come  back  again  !  " 

"And  what  after  that?"  said  both  Floss  and  Car- 
rots in  a  breath. 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  it  you  all,"  said  Sybil;  "you 
must  ask  papa." 

"Does  he  often  tell  you  stories?"  asked  Floss. 

"Bits,"  said  Sybil;  "he  doesn't  tell  them  all 
through,  like  mother.  But  he's  very  nice  about 
answering  things  I  ask  him.  He  doesn't  say  'you 
couldn't  understand,'  or  '  you'll  know  when  you're 
older,'  that  horrid  way." 

"  He  must  be  nice,"  said  Floss,  who  had  secretly 


136 

been  trembling  a  little  at  the  thought  of  the  strange 
uncle. 

And  he  did  turn  out  very  nice.  He  was  older  than 
Floss  had  expected ;  a  good  deal  older  than  auntie, 
whom  he  sometimes  spoke  to  as  if  she  were  quite  a 
little  girl,  in  a  way  which  amused  the  children  very 
much.  At  first  he  seemed  very  quiet  and  grave,  but 
after  a  while  Floss  found  out  that  in  his  own  way  he 
was  very  fond  of  fun,  and  she  confided  to  auntie  that 
she  thought  he  was  the  funniest  person  she  had  ever 
seen.  I  don't  know  if  auntie  told  him  this,  or  if  he 
took  it  as  a  compliment,  but  certainly  he  could  not 
have  been  offended,  for  every  day,  as  they  learnt 
to  know  him  better,  the  children  found  him  kinder 
and  kinder. 

So  they  were  very  happy  at  Greenmays,  and  no 
doubt  would  have  gone  on  being  so  but  for  one  thing. 
There  came  bad  news  of  their  mother. 

This  was  how  they  heard  it.  Every  week  at  least, 
for  several  weeks,  Floss  or  Carrots,  and  sometimes 
both,  got  a  letter  from  their  mother  or  from  Cecil 
and  Louise ;  and  at  first  these  letters  were  so  cheer- 
ful, that  even  the  little  bit  of  anxiety  which  the 
children  had  hardly  known  was  in  their  hearts  melted 
away. 

"What  a  good  thing  mamma  went  to  that  nice 
warm  place,  isn't  it,  auntie?"  Carrots  used  to  say 
after  the  -arrival  of  each  letter,  and  auntie  most 
heartily  agreed  with  the  happy  little  fellow.  But 


HAPPY  AND   SAD.  137 

at  last,  just  about  Christmas  time,  when  the  thin 
foreign-looking  letter,  that  the  children  had  learnt 
to  know  so  well,  made  its  appearance  one  morning 
on  the  breakfast-table,  it  proved  to  be  for  auntie  — 
that,  of  course,  they  did  not  object  to,  had  there  been 
one  for  them  too,  but  there  was  not ! 

"  Auntie  dear,  there  is  no  letter  for  us,"  said  Floss, 
when  auntie  came  into  the  room.  "Will  you  please 
open  yours  quick,  and  see  if  there  is  one  inside  it  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  there  is,"  said  auntie;  "it  doesn't 
feel  like  it." 

However,  she  opened  the  letter  at  once.  No, 
there  was  no  enclosure ;  and  Floss,  who  was  watching 
her  face,  saw  that  it  grew  troubled  as  she  ran  her 
eyes  down  the  page. 

"  My  letter  is  from  your  father.  I  cannot  read  it 
properly  till  after  breakfast,  for  uncle  is  waiting  for 
me  to  pour  out  his  coffee.  Run  off  now,  dears,  and 
I'll  come  to  the  nursery  and  tell  you  all  about  it  after 
breakfast,"  she  said,  trying  to  look  arid  speak  just  the 
same  as  usual. 

But  Floss  saw  that  she  was  trying ;  she  did  not 
persist,  however,  but  took  Carrots  by  the  hand,  and 
went  off  obediently  without  speaking,  only  giving 
auntie  one  wistful  look  as  she  turned  away. 

"What's  wrong,  Florence?"  said  Sybil's  father, 
as  the  door  closed  after  the  children. 

"It  is  about  Lucy,"  said  auntie;  "she  is  much 
worse ;  very  ill  indeed.  She  has  caught  cold  some- 


138 

how,  and  Frank  seems  almost  to  have  lost  hope 
already." 

Two  or  three  tears  rolled  down  auntie's  face  as 
she  spoke.  For  a  minute  or  two  Sybil's  father  said 
nothing. 

"How  about  telling  the  children?"  he  asked  at 
last. 

"That's  just  it,"  replied  auntie.  "Frank  leaves 
it  to  me  to  tell  them  or  not,  as  I  think  best.  He 
would  not  let  Cecil  or  Louise  write,  as  he  thought  if 
it  had  to  be  told  I  had  better  do  so  as  gently  as  I 
could,  by  word  of  mouth.  But  they  must  be  told  — 
they  are  such  quick  children,  I  believe  Floss  suspects 
it  already.  And  if  —  and  if  the  next  news  should  be 
worse"  continued  auntie  with  a  little  sob,  "I  would 
never  forgive  myself  for  not  having  prepared  them, 
and  they  would  be  full  of  self-reproach  for  having 
been  happy  and  merry  as  usual.  Floss  would  say 
she  should  have  known  it  by  instinct." 

"  Would  they  feel  it  so  much  ?  —  could  they  realise 
it  ?  They  are  so  young,"  said  Sybil's  father. 

Auntie  shook  her  head.  "Not  too  young  to  feel 
it  terribly,"  she  said.  "It  is  much  better  to  tell 
them.  I  could  not  hide  the  sorrow  in  my  face  from 
those  two  honest  pairs  of  eyes,  for  one  thing." 

"  Well,  you  know  best,"  said  her  husband. 

A  sad  telling  it  was,  and  the  way  in  which  the 
children  took  it  touched  auntie's  loving  heart  to  the 
quick.  They  were  so  quiet  and  "pitiful,"  as  little 


HAPPY   AND   SAD.  139 

Sybil  said.  Floss's  face  grew  white,  for,  with  a 
child's  hasty  rush  at  conclusions,  she  fancied  at  first 
that  auntie  was  paving  the  way  for  the  worst  news 
of  all. 

"Is  mamma  dead?"  she  whispered,  and  auntie's 
"  Oh  no,  no,  darling.  Not  so  bad  as  that,"  seemed 
to  give  her  a  sort  of  crumb  of  hope,  even  before  she 
had  heard  all. 

And  Carrots  stood  beside  auntie's  knee,  clasping 
his  little  mother  Floss's  hand  tight,  and  looking  up 
in  auntie's  face  with  those  wonderful  eyes  of  his, 
which  auntie  had  said  truly  one  could  not  deceive ; 
and  when  he  had  been  told  all  there  was  to  tell,  he 
just  said  softly,  "  Oh  poor  mamma !  Auntie,  she 
kissened  us  so  many  times  !  " 

And  then,  which  auntie  was  on  the  whole  g-lad  of, 
the  three  children  sat  down  on  the  rug  together  and 
cried;  Sybil,  in  her  sympathy,  as  heartily  as  the 
others,  while  she  kept  kissing  and  petting  them,  and 
calling  them  by  every  endearing  name  she  could 
think  of. 

"When  will  there  be  another  letter,  auntie?" 
said  Floss. 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,"  said  auntie.  "Your 
father  will  write  by  every  mail." 

In  her  own  heart  auntie  had  not  much  hope. 
From  what  Captain  Desart  said,  the  anxiety  was  not 
likely  to  last  long.  The  illness  had  taken  a  different 
form  from  Mrs.  Desart's  other  attacks.  "  She  must 


140  « CARROTS." 

be  better  or  worse  in  a  day  or  two,"  he  wrote,  and 
auntie's  heart  sorely  misgave  her  as  to  which  it 
would  be. 

The  sorrowful  day  seemed  very  long  to  the  chil- 
dren. They  did  their  lessons  as  usual,  for  auntie 
told  them  it  would  be  much  better  to  do  so. 

"Would  it  please  mamma?"  said  Carrots;  and 
when  auntie  said  "  Yes,  she  was  quite  sure  it  would," 
he  got  his  books  at  once,  and  "  tried "  even  harder 
than  usual. 

But  after  lessons  they  had  no  heart  to  play,  and 
there  was  no  "  must "  about  that.  By  bed-time  they 
all  looked  worn  out  with  crying  and  the  sort  of 
strange  excitement  there  is  about  great  sorrows  — 
above  all  to  children  —  which  is  more  exhausting 
than  almost  anything. 

"  This  will  never  do,"  thought  auntie.  "  Hugh  " 
(that  was  the  name  of  Sybil's  father)  "will  have 
reason  to  think  I  should  have  taken  his  advice,  and 
not  told  them,  if  they  go  on  like  this." 

"Sybil,"  she  said,  "Floss  and  Carrots  will  make 
themselves  ill  before  the  next  letter  comes.  What 
can  we  do  for  them  ?  " 

Sybil  shook  her  head  despondently. 

"  I  don't  know,  mother  dear,"  she  said ;  "  I've  got 
out  all  my  best  things  to  please  them,  but  it's  no 
good."  She  stood  still  for  a  minute,  then  her  face 
lightened  up.  "Mother,"  she  said,  "'aposing  you 
were  to  read  aloud  some  of  those  stories  you're 


HAPPY   AND    SAD.  141 

going  to  get  bounded  up  into  a  book  some  day? 
They  would  like  that." 

Floss  hardly  felt  as  if  she  could  care  to  hear  any 
stories,  however  pretty.  But  she  did  not  like  to 
disappoint  kind  auntie  by  saying  so,  especially  when 
auntie  told  her  she  really  wanted  to  know  if  she 
and  Carrots  liked  her  stories,  as  it  would  help  her 
to  judge  if  other  children  would  care  for  them  when 
they  were  "  bounded  up  into  a  book." 

So  the  next  day  auntie  read  them  some,  and  they 
talked  them  over  and  got  quite  interested  in  them. 
Fortunately,  she  did  not  read  them  all  that  day, 
for  the  next  day  there  was  still  more  need  of  some- 
thing to  distract  the  children's  sorrowful  thoughts, 
as  the  looked-for  letter  did  not  come.  Auntie  would 
have  liked  to  cheer  the  children  by  reminding  them 
of  the  old  sayings  that  "  No  news  is  good  news,"  and 
"  It  is  ill  news  which  flies  fast,"  but  she  dared  not,  for 
her  own  heart  was  very  heavy  with  anxiety.  And  she 
was  very  glad  to  see  them  interested  in  the  rest  of 
the  stories  for  the  time. 

I  cannot  tell  you  these  stories,  but  some  day 
perhaps  you  may  come  across  the  little  book  which 
they  were  made  into.  But  there  is  one  of  them 
which  I  should  like  to  tell  you,  as  it  is  not  very 
long,  and  in  the  children's  mind  it  was  always  asso- 
ciated with  something  that  happened  just  as  auntie 
had  finished  reading  it.  For  it  was  the  last  of  her 
little  stories,  and  it  was  called  — 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"THE  TWO  FUNNY   LITTLE   TROTS." 

"  Like  to  a  double  cherry." 

MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

' "  OH  mamma,"  cried  I,  from  the  window  by 
which  I  was  standing,  to  my  mother  who  was  work- 
ing by  the  fire,  "  do  come  here  and  look  at  these  two 
funny  little  trots."  : 

[Auntie  had  only  read  this  first  sentence  of  her 
story  when  Sybil  interrupted  her. 

"Mother  dear,"  she  said,  in  her  prim  little  way, 
"  before  you  begin,  do  tell  us  one  thing.  Does  the 
story  end  sadly  ?  " 

Auntie  smiled.  "You  should  have  asked  me 
before  I  had  begun,  Sybil,"  she  said.  "But  never 
mind  now.  I  don't  really  think  I  can  tell  you  if 
it  ends  sadly  or  not.  It  would  be  like  telling 
you  the  end  at  the  beginning,  and  it  would  spoil 
the  interest,  if  you  understand  what  that  means." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Sybil,  resignedly,  "  then  I  sup- 
pose I  must  wait.  But  I  won't  like  it  if  it  ends 
badly,  mother,  and  Floss  won't,  and  Carrots  won't. 
Will  you,  Floss  and  Carrots  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  Floss  and  Carrots  can  say,  till 
142 


"THE   TWO   FUNNY   LITTLE   TROTS."  143 

they've  heard  it,"  said  auntie.  "  Now,  Sybil,  you 
mustn't  interrupt  any  more.  Where  was  I  ?  Oh 
yes  "]  — ' "  do  come  and  look  at  these  two  funny 
little  trots." 

'  My  mother  got  up  from  her  seat  and  came  to  the 
window.  She  could  not  help  smiling  when  she  saw 
the  little  couple  I  pointed  out  to  her. 

4  "  Aren't  they  a  pair  of  fat  darlings  ?  "  I  said.  "  I 
wonder  if  they  live  in  our  terrace  ?  " 

4  We  knew  very  little  of  our  neighbours,  though 
we  were  not  living  in  London,  for  we  had  only  just 
come  to  St.  Austin's.  We  had  come  there  to  spend 
the  winter,  as  it  was  a  mild  and  sheltered  place,  for 
I,  then  a  girl  of  sixteen,  had  been  in  delicate  health 
for  some  time.'  ["You  wouldn't  believe  it  to  see 
rne  now,  would  you?  "  said  auntie,  looking  up  at  the 
children  with  a  smile  on  her  pretty  young-looking 
face,  but  it  was  quite  true,  all  the  same.]  '  I  was  my 
mother's  only  girl,'  she  went  on,  turning  to  her 
manuscript  again,  '  and  she  was  a  widow,  so  you  can 
fancy  what  a  pet  I  was.  My  big  brothers  were 
already  all  out  in  the  world,  in  the  navy,  or  the 
army,  or  at  college,  and  my  mother  and  I  generally 
lived  by  ourselves  in  a  country  village  much  farther 
north  than  St.  Austin's,  and  it  was  quite  an  event 
to  us  to  leave  our  own  home  for  several  months 
and  settle  ourselves  down  in  lodgings  in  a  strange 
place. 

4  It  seemed  a  very  strange  place  to  us,  for  we  had 


144  "  CARROTS.'' 

not  a  single  friend  or  acquaintance  in  it,  and  at  home 
in  our  village  we  knew  everybody,  and  everybody 
knew  us,  from  the  clergyman  down  to  farmer  Grin- 
thwait's  sheep-dog,  and  nothing  happened  without 
our  knowing  it.  I  suppose  I  was  naturally  of  rather 
a  sociable  turn.  I  knew  my  mother  used  sometimes 
in  fun  to  call  me  "  a  little  gossip,"  and  I  really  very 
much  missed  the  sight  of  the  accustomed  friendly 
faces.  We  had  been  two  days  at  St.  Austin's,  and  I 
had  spent  most  of  those  two  days  at  the  window, 
declaring  to  my  mother,  that  I  should  not  feel  so 
"  strange  "  if  I  got  to  know  some  of  our  neighbours 
by  sight,  if  nothing  more. 

4  But  hitherto  I  had  hardly  succeeded  even  in  this. 
There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  "  neighbours  "  in  the 
passers-by;  they  were  just  passers-by  who  never 
seemed  to  pass  by  again,  and  without  anything  par- 
ticular to  distinguish  them  if  they  did.  For  St. 
Austin's  was  a  busy  little  place,  and  our  house  was 
on  the  South  Esplanade,  the  favourite  "  promenade  " 
for  the  visitors,  none  of  whom,  gentlemen,  ladies,  or 
children,  had  particularly  attracted  me  till  the  morn- 
ing I  first  caught  sight  of  my  funny  little  trots. 

4 1  do  think  they  would  have  attracted  any  one  — 
any  one  certainly  that  loved  children.  I  fancy  I 
see  them  now,  the  two  dears,  coming  slowly  and 
solemnly  along,  each  with  a  hand  of  their  nurse, 
pulling  ivell  back  from  her,  as  if  the  effort  to  keep 
up,  even  with  her  deliberate  rate  of  walking,  was 


"THE  TWO  FUNNY  LITTLE  TROTS."  145 

almost  too  much  for  their  fat  little  legs.  They 
looked  exactly  the  same  size,  and  were  alike  in 
everything,  from  their  dresses  — which  this  first  day 
were  brown  holland,  very  easy  about  the  bodies,  very 
short  and  bunchy  about  the  skirts  —  to  the  two 
white  woolly  lambs,  clasped  manfully  by  each  in  his 
or  her  disengaged  hand.  Whether  they  were  boys  or 
girls  I  could  not  tell  in  the  least,  and  to  this  day  I 
do  not  know. 

4 "  Aren't  they  darlings,  mamma?  "  I  said. 

4 "  They  certainly  are  two  funny  little  trots,"  she 
replied  with  a  smile,  using  my  own  expression. 

4  Mamma  went  back  to  her  knitting,  but  I  stayed 
by  the  window,  watching  my  new  friends.  They 
passed  slowly  up  the  Esplanade,  my  eyes  following 
them  till  they  were  out  of  sight,  and  then  I  turned 
away  regretfully. 

4  44  They  are  sure  not  to  pass  again,"  I  said,  44  and 
they  are  so  nice." 

4  44  If  they  live  near  here,  very  likely  the  Esplanade 
is  their  daily  walk,  and  they  will  be  passing  back 
again  in  a  few  minutes,"  said  my  mother,  entering 
into  my  fancy. 

4 1  took  up  her  suggestion  eagerly.  She  was  right : 
in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  my  trots  appeared 
again,  this  time  from  the  other  direction,  and,  as  good 
luck  would  have  it,  just  opposite  our  window,  their 
nurse  happening  to  meet  an  acquaintance,  they  came 
to  a  halt ! 


146 

'  "  Mamma,  mamma,"  I  exclaimed,  "  here  they  are 
again ! " 

'Mamma  nodded  her  head  and  smiled  without 
looking  up.  She  was  just  then  counting  the  rows  of 
her  knitting,  and  was  afraid  of  losing  the  number.  I 
pressed  my  face  close  to  the  window — if  only  the 
trots  would  look  my  way  !  —  I  could  hardly  resist 
tapping  on  the  pane. 

'  Suddenly  a  bright  thought  struck  me.  I  seized 
Gip,  my  little  dog,  who  was  asleep  on  the  hearth-rug, 
and  held  him  up  to  the  window. 

'"T'ss,  Gip;  T'ss,  cat.  At  her;  at  her,"  I  ex- 
claimed. 

'Poor  Gip  had  doubtless  been  having  delightful 
dreams  — it  was  very  hard  on  him  to  be  wakened  up 
so  startlingly.  He  blinked  his  eyes  and  tried  to  see 
the  imaginary  cat  —  no  doubt  he  thought  it  was  his 
own  fault  he  did  not'  succeed,  for  he  was  the  most 
humble-minded  and  unpresuming  of  little  dogs,  and 
his  faith  in  me  was  unbounded.  He  could  not  see  a 
cat,  but  he  took  it  for  granted  that  I  did ;  so  he  set 
to  work  barking  vigorously.  That  was  just  what  I 
wanted.  The  trots  heard  the  noise  and  both  turned 
round ;  then  they  let  go  their  nurse's  hands  and  made 
a  little  journey  round  her  skirts  till  they  met. 

4  "  Dot,"  said  one,  "  pretty  doggie." 

4 "  Doll,"  said  the  other,  both  speaking  at  once,  you 
understand,  "pretty  doggie." 

4 1  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  heard  what  they  said,  I 


"  SUDDENLY  A  BRIGHT  THOUGHT  STRUCK  ME,  I  SEIZED  GIP, 
MY  LITTLE  Doa,  WHO  WAS  ASLEEP  ON  THE  HEARTH-RUO,  ANB 

HELD  HIM  UP  AT  THE  WINDOW."— p.  146. 


"THE   TWO   FUNNY  LITTLE  TROTS."  147 

only  saw  it.  But  afterwards,  when  I  had  heard  their 
voices,  I  felt  sure  that  was  what  they  had  said,  for 
they  almost  always  spoke  together. 

4  Then  they  joined  their  disengaged  hands  (the 
outside  hand  of  each  still  clasping  its  woolly  lamb), 
and  there  they  stood,  legs  well  apart,  little  mouths 
and  eyes  wide  open,  staring  with  the  greatest  interest 
and  solemnity  at  Gip  and  me.  At  Gip,  of  course,  far 
more  than  at  me.  Gip  was  a  dog,  I  was  only  a  girl ! 
—  quite  a  middle-aged  person,  no  doubt,  the  trots 
thought  me,  if  they  thought  about  me  at  all ;  perhaps 
they  did  a  little,  as  I  was  Gip's  owner ;  for  I  was  six- 
teen, and  they  could  not  have  been  much  more  than 
three. 

'  But  all  this  time  they  were  so  solemn.  I  wanted 
to  make  them  laugh.  There  was  a  little  table  in 
the  window  —  a  bow  window,  of  course,  as  it  was  at 
the  sea-side,  and  certain  to  catch  winds  from  every 
quarter  of  the  heavens  —  upon  which  I  mounted  Gip, 
and  set  to  work  putting  him  through  his  tricks.  I 
made  him  perform  " ready,  present,  fire"  with  a  leap 
to  catch  the  bit  of  biscuit  on  his  nose.  I  made  him 
"  beg,"  "  lie  dead,"  like  Mother  Hubbard's  immortal 
pet,  and  do  everything  a  well-educated  dog  could 
be  expected  to  do.  And,  oh,  how  funny  it  was  to 
watch  the  trots !  Evidently  they  had  never  seen  any- 
thing of  the  kind  before  ;  they  stared  at  first  as  if 
they  could  hardly  believe  their  eyes,  and  then  they 
smiled,  and,  at  last,  they  laughed.  How  prettily  they 


148 

laughed  —  they  looked  more  like  two  fat  cherubs 
than  ever. 

'But  their  laughing  attracted  their  maid's  atten- 
tion. She  too  turned  round,  and  I  was  pleased 
to  see  that  she  had  a  pleasant  pretty  young  face. 
"I  shouldn't  have  liked  those  dear  trots  to  have 
a  cross  old  nurse,"  I  said  to  myself,  and  the  maid 
still  further  raised  herself  in  my  good  opinion  by 
laughing  and  smiling  too.  In  a  minute  or  two 
when  she  thought  "that  was  enough  for  to-day," 
she  stooped  and  whispered  to  the  trots.  They 
immediately  lifted  their  little  hands,  the  right  of 
one,  the  left  of  the  other  —  for  nothing,  you  see, 
could  have  persuaded  them  to  let  go  of  their 
precious  lambs  —  to  their  rosy  mouths  and  blew  a 
kiss  to  me,  and  I  could  see  them  say,  "  Zank  zou, 
lady  ;  zank  zou,  doggie." 

4  You  may  be  sure  I  kissed  my  hand  to  them  in 
return,  and  off  they  toddled,  each  with  a  hand  of 
"Bessie,"  as  I  afterwards  heard  them  call  their 
maid,  and  hauling  back  manfully  as  before,  which 
gave  Bessie  the  look  of  a  very  large  steam-tug 
convoying  two  very  little  vessels. 

4 1  watched  them  till  they  were  quite  out  of  sight. 
Then  I  turned  to  my  mother. 

4  "  I  have  made  two  friends  here  anyway, 
mamma,"  I  said.  "  The  trots  are  sure  to  stop 
every  time  they  pass.  It  will  be  something  to 
watch  for." 


"THE  TWO  FUNNY   LITTLE   TBOTS."  149 

'Mamma  smiled.  She  was  pleased  to  see  me 
pleased  and  interested,  for  she  had  been  beginning 
to  fear  that  the  dulness  and  strangeness  of  our  new 
life  would  prevent  St.  Austin's  doing  me  as  much 
good  as  she  had  hoped. 

' " To-morrow,  dear,"  she  said,  "if  it  is  fine,  I 
hope  you  will  be  able  to  go  a  little  walk,  and  we'll 
look  out  for  your  little  friends." 

'It  was  fine  the  next  day,  and  we  did  go  out, 
and  we  did  meet  the  trots ! 

'  They  caught  sight  of  me  (of  Gip,  rather,  I 
should  perhaps  say)  and  I  of  them,  just  about 
the  same  moment.  I  saw  them  tug  their  nurse, 
and  when  they  got  close  up  to  me  they  stopped 
short.  It  was  no  use  Bessie's  trying  to  get  them 
on ;  there  they  stood  resolutely,  till  the  poor  girl's 
face  grew  red,  and  she  looked  quite  ashamed.  Gip, 
who  I  must  say,  had  a  wonderful  amount  of  tact, 
ran  up  to  them  with  a  friendly  little  bark.  Bessie 
let  go  the  trots'  hands  and  stooped  to  stroke  him. 

' "  He  won't  bite,  miss,  will  he  ?  "  she  said  gently, 
looking  up  at  me. 

' "  Oh,  dear,  no,"  I  said,  and  the  trots,  smiling 
with  delight,  stooped  —  not  that  they  had  so  very 
far  to  stoop  —  to  stroke  him  too. 

'  "  Pretty  doggie,"  said  Doll. 

4 "  Pretty  doggie,"  said  Dot. 

'Then  they  held  up  their  dear  little  mouths  to 
kiss  me.  "  Zank  zou,  lady,"  they  said,  and  each 


150  "  CARROTS." 

taking  a  hand  of  Bessie  again,  they  proceeded  on 
their  way. 

4  After  that  day,  not  many  passed  without  my 
seeing  them,  and  talking  to  them,  and  making 
Gip  show  off  his  tricks.  Sometimes  our  meetings 
were  at  the  window,  sometimes  on  the  road ;  once 
or  twice,  when  there  came  some  unusually  fine 
mild  days,  mamma  let  me  sit  out  on  the  shore, 
and  I  taught  the  trots  to  dig  a  hole  for  Gip  and 
bury  him  in  the  sand,  all  bat  his  bright  eyes  and 
funny  black  nose  —  that  was  a  beautiful  game !  I 
never  found  out  exactly  where  my  friends  lived; 
it  was  in  one  of  the  side  streets  leading  on  to 
the  Esplanade^  that  was  all  I  knew.  I  never  knew, 
as  I  said,  if  they  were  boys  or  girls,  or  perhaps 
one  of  each.  Mamma  wanted  one  day  to  ask  Bessie, 
but  I  wouldn't  let  her.  They  were  just  my  'two 
little  trots,  that  was  all  I  wanted  to  know. 

4 "  It  would  spoil  them  to  fancy  them  growing  up 
into  great  boys  or  girls,"  I  said.  "  I  want  them  to 
be  always  trots  —  nothing  else." 

4  And  as  Bessie  called  them  simply  Doll  and  Dot, 
without  any  "master"  or  "miss,"  I  was  able  to 
keep  my  fancy. 

4  When  the  weather  grew  colder,  the  trots  came 
out  in  a  new  costume  —  sealskin  coats,  sealskin  caps, 
and  sealskin  gloves  —  they  were  just  little  balls  of 
sealskin,  and  looked  "  trottier "  than  ever.  About 
this  time  they  left  off  carrying  their  woolly  lambs. 


151 

I  suspect  the  real  reason  was  that  their  extreme  af- 
fection for  the  lambs  had  resulted  in  these  favoured 
animals  growing  more  black  than  white,  and  that 
Bessie  judged  them  unfit  for  appearing  in  public, 
but  if  this  was  the  case,  evidently  Bessie  had  been 
obliged  to  resort  to  artifice  to  obtain  their  owners' 
consent  to  the  lambs  being  left  at  home.  For,  when 
I  asked  the  trots  where  the  precious  creatures  were, 
they  looked  melancholy  and  distressed  and  shook 
their  heads. 

4 "  Too  told !  "  said  Doll,  and  Dot  repeated,  like 
mournful  echo,  "  too  told  !  " 

4 "Of  course,"  said  I,  "how  stupid  of  me  not  to 
think  of  it !  of  course  it's  far  too  cold  for  such  very 
little  lambs  to  be  out." 

'Bessie  looked  gratefully  at  me.  "We're  going 
to  buy  some  cakes  for  tea,"  she  said,  with  a  smile, 
and  sure  enough  in  about  half-an-hour  the  trio  reap- 
peared again,  and  came  to  a  standstill  as  usual,  oppo- 
site our  window.  And,  instead  of  a  lamb,  each  trot 
hugged  a  little  parcel,  neatly  done  up  in  white  paper. 
I  opened  the  window  to  hear  what  they  were  saying, 
they  looked  so  excited. 

' "  Takes  for  tea,"  they  both  called  out  at  once, 
"  takes  for  tea.  Lady  have  one.  Dip  have  one." 

'And  poor  Bessie  was  obliged  to  open  the  par- 
cels, and  extract  one  "  take "  from  each  and  hand 
them  up  to  me,  before  my  little  dears  would  be 
satisfied. 


152 

'Can  you  fancy  that  I  really  got  to  love  the 
trots?  I  did  not  want  to  know  who  they  were, 
or  what  sort  of  a  father  and  mother  they  had  — 
they  were  well  taken  care  of,  that  was  evident, 
for  somehow,  knowing  anything  more  about  them 
would  have  spoilt  them  for  being  my  funny  little 
trots. 

'  But,  for  several  weeks  of  the  three  months  we 
spent  at  St.  Austin's,  the  sight  of  these  happy  little 
creatures  was  one  of  my  greatest  pleasures,  and  a 
day  without  a  glimpse  of  them  would  have  seemed 
blank  and  dull. 

'  There  came  a  time,  however,  when  for  many  days 
I  did  not  see  my  little  friends.  The  weather  was 
bad  just  then,  and  mamma  said  she  was  sure  they 
had  got  colds,  that  would  be  all  that  was  wrong  with 
them,  but  somehow  I  felt  uneasy.  I  asked  our  doc- 
tor, when  he  called,  if  there  was  much  illness  about, 
and  he,  fancying  I  was  nervous  on  my  own  account, 
replied,  "  Oh  no,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three 
cases  of  croup,  he  had  no  serious  ailments  among  his 
patients :  it  was  a  very  healthy  season." 

4 1  got  frightened  at  the  idea  of  croup,  and  cross- 
questioned  him  to  discover  if  my  trots  were  among 
the  sufferers,  but  he  shook  his  head.  All  his  little 
patients  were  mere  infants ;  he  did  not  even  know 
the  trots  by  sight. 

4  Then  mamma  suggested  another  very  reasonable 
explanation  of  their  disappearance. 


"THE   TWO   FUNNY  LITTLE   TROTS."  153 

4  "They  have  probably  left  St.  Austin's,"  she 
said.  "Many  people  come  here  for  only  the  very 
worst  of  the  winter,  and  that  is  about  over  now." 

4  But  even  this  did  not  satisfy  me.  I  was  certain 
something  was  wrong  with  Doll  and  Dot,  and  I 
wasted,  I  should  be  ashamed  to  say  how  many  hours 
gazing  out  of  the  window  in  hopes  of  catching  sight 
of  the  familiar  little  figures. 

4  At  last,  one  day,  when  I  had  almost  left  off 
hoping  ever  to  see  them  again,  suddenly,  two  figures 
appeared  on  the  Esplanade,  a  stone's  throw  from  our 
window. 

4  Who  were  they  ?  Could  it  be  —  yes,  it  must  be 
one  of  the  trots,  led  by,  not  Bessie,  no,  this  maid 
was  a  stranger.  Where  could  Bessie  be  ?  And  oh, 
where  was  my  other  little  trot?  For,  even  at  some 
yards'  distance,  I  saw  something  sadly  different  in 
the  appearance  of  the  one  little  figure,  slowly  coming 
along  in  our  direction.  It  was  dressed  —  hat,  coat, 
gloves,  socks  and  all  —  it  was  dressed  in  deep 
mourning. 

4 1  seized  my  hat  and  rushed  out  to  meet  them. 
Mamma  thought  I  was  going  out  of  my  mind  I 
believe.  When  I  found  myself  in  the  open  air, 
I  tried  to  control  myself  and  look  like  the  rest 
of  the  people  walking  quietly  along,  though  my 
heart  was  beating  violently,  and  I  felt  as  if  I 
could  not  speak  without  crying.  But  when  I  got 
up  to  the  one  little  trot  and  its  attendant,  the 


154 

sight  of  her  strange  face  composed  me.  She  was 
so  different  from  Bessie  —  old  and  stiff  and  prim- 
looking.  I  stooped  to  kiss  the  child,  Dot  or  Doll, 
I  knew  not  which.  "  How  are  you,  darling  ? "  I 
said,  "  And  where  is  —  "  I  stopped  short. 

4  The  trot  looked  up  in  my  face. 

4  "  Oh  lady,"  it  said,  "  Dot  is  all  alone.  Doll  is 
done  to  'Ebben,"  and  the  great  tears  gathered  in 
Dot's  mournful  eyes  and  rolled  down  Dot's  rosy 
cheeks. 

4  "  Hush,  hush,  my  dear.  You  mustn't  cry.  You'll 
make  yourself  ill  if  you  cry  any  more,"  said  the  hard- 
looking  nurse. 

4  A  moment  before,  I  had  intended  turning  to  her 
and  asking  for  some  particulars  of  the  baby's  sad 
words,  but  now  I  felt  I  could  not.  She  was  so 
stiff  and  unsympathising.  I  could  not  bear  her  to 
see  me,  a  stranger,  crying  about  what  I  had  heard. 
Besides,  what  good  would  it  do?  Why  should  I 
hear  any  more?  I  shrank  from  doing  so.  The 
bare  fact  was  enough.  I  just  bent  down  and 
kissed  the  solitary  darling. 

4  4t  Good-bye,  my  trot,"  I  said.  I  could  not  say 
another  word. 

' 44  Dood-bye,  don't  ky,"  said  Dot,  stroking  my  cheek. 
44  Doll  won't  turn  back,  but  Dot  will  do  to  'Ebben  too 
some  day." 

4  That  was  quite  too  much  for  me.  I  turned  away 
and  hurried  back  home  as  fast  as  I  could. 


"THE   TWO  FUNNY   LITTLE  TROTS."  155 

4 "  Mamma,"  I  exclaimed,  rushing  into  our  sitting- 
room,  and  throwing  myself  down  on  the  sofa,  "  it's 
just  what  I  thought.  I  wish  you  would  come  away 
from  St.  Austin's  at  once.  I  shall  never,  never  like 
it  again." 

4 "What  is  the  matter,  Florence?"  said  poor 
mamma,  quite  startled. 

4  44  It's  about  the  trots,"  I  said,  now  fairly  sobbing, 
44 1  have  just  seen  one  —  in  deep  mourning,  mamma, 
—  and  —  and  —  the  other  one  is  dead" 

4  4t  Poor  little  angel !  "  said  mamma.  And  the 
tears  came  into  her  eyes  too. 

4 1  did  not  see  Dot  again  after  that  day.  I  fancy 
that  was  its  last  walk  before  leaving  St.  Austin's  for 
its  regular  home,  wherever  that  was.  And  a  very 
short  time  after,  we  ourselves  left  too. 

********* 

4 1  never  forgot  the  trots.  Of  course  the  pleasure 
of  going  back  to  our  own  dear  home  again,  and 
seeing  all  our  old  friends,  raised  my  spirits,  and 
softened  the  real  grief  I  had  felt.  But  whenever 
we  spoke  of  St.  Austin's",  or  people  asked  me  about 
it,  and  mentioned  the  esplanade  or  the  shore,  or  any 
of  the  places  where  I  had  seen  the  trots,  the  tears 
would  come  into  my  eyes,  as  again  I  seemed  to  see 
before  me  the  two  dear  funny  little  figures.  And 
whenever  our  plans  for  the  following  winter  were 
alluded  to,  I  always  said  one  thing :  44  Wherever 
you  go,  mamma,  don't  go  to  St.  Austin's." 


156  "CARROTS." 

< 

4  My  mother  gave  in  to  me.  When  did  she  not  ? 
How  patient  she  was  with  me,  how  sympathising, 
even  in  my  fancies  !  And  how  unselfish  —  it  was 
not  till  long  after  we  had  left  St.  Austin's,  that  she 
told  me  what  anxiety  she  had  gone  through  on 
hearing  of  my  having  kissed  little  Dot.  For  how 
sadly  probable  it  seemed  that  Doll  had  died  of 
some  infectious  illness,  such  as  scarlet-fever,  for 
instance,  which  I  had  never  had ! 

4 "  But  Dot  couldn't  have  been  ill,  mamma,"  I 
said.  "  Dot  looked  perfectly  well." 

4  44  Did  he  ? "  said  my  mother.  Sometimes  she 
called  the  trots  4t  he  "  and  sometimes  44  she,"  in  the 
funniest  way  !  44 1  wonder  what  the  other  little  dear 
died  of?"  ' 

444  So  do  I,"  I  replied.  "Still,  on  the  whole,  I 
think  I  am  just  as  well  pleased  not  to  know." 

4  Our  uncertainty  for  the  next  winter  ended  in 
what  was  to  me  a  delightful  decision.  We  deter- 
mined to  go  to  the  South  of  France.  I  could  amuse 
you  children  by  a  description  of  our  journey  — 
journeys  in  those  days  really  were  much  more  amus- 
ing than  now  ;  but  I  must  hasten  on  to  the  end  of 
my  story.  We  had  fixed  upon  Pan  as  our  head- 
quarters, and  we  arrived  there  early  in  November. 
What  a  different  thing  from  our  November  at  home ! 
I  could  hardly  believe  it  was  November ;  it  would 
have  seemed  to  me  far  less  wonderful  to  have  been 
told  I  had  been  asleep  for  six  months,  and  that  really 


"THE  TWO   FUNNY  LITTLE   TROTS."  157 

it  was  May,  and  not  November  at  all,  than  to  have 
awakened  as  I  did,  that  first  morning  after  our  arri- 
val, and  to  have  seen  out  of  the  window  the  lovely 
sunshine  and  bright  blue  sky,  and  summer-look  of 
warmth,  and  comfort,  and  radiance  ! 

4  We  had  gone  to  an  hotel  for  a  few  days,  intend- 
ing to  look  out  for  a  little  house,  or  "  apartement " 
(which,  children,  does  .not  mean  the  same  thing  as 
our  English  lodgings  by  any  means),  at  our  leisure. 
Your  grandmother  was  not  rich,  and  the  coming  so 
far  cost  a  great  deal.  The  hotel  we  had  been  rec- 
ommended to,  was  a  very  comfortable  one,  though 
not  one  of  the  most  fashionable,  and  the  landlord 
was  very  civil,  as  some  friend  who  had  stayed  with 
him  the  year  before  had  written  about  our  coming. 
He  showed  us  our  rooms  himself,  and  hoped  we 
should  like  them,  and  then  he  turned  back  to  say 
he  trusted  we  should  not  be  disturbed  by  the  voices 
of  some  children  in  the  next  "salon.'.'  He  would 
not  have  risked  it,  he  said,  had  he  been  able  to  help 
it,  but  there  were  no  other  rooms  vacant,  and  the 
family  with  the  children  were  leaving  the  next  day. 
Not  that  they  were  noisy  children  by  any  means ; 
they  were  very  chers  petits,  but  there  were  ladies,  to 
whom  the  very  name  of  children  in  their  vicinity 
was  —  here  the  landlord  held  up  his  hands  and  made 
a  grimace ! 

4 "  Then  they  must  be  old  maids  !  "  I  said,  laugh- 
ing, "  which  mamma  and  I  are  not.  We  love  chil- 


158  "  CAKROTS." 

dren,"  at  which  Mr.  Landlord  bowed  and  smiled,  and 
said  something  complimentary  about  mademoiselle 
being  so  "  aimable." 

'  I  listened  for  the  children's  voices  that  evening, 
and  once  or  twice  I  heard  their  clear  merry  tones. 
But  as  for  any  "  disturbance,"  one  might  as  well 
have  complained  of  a  cuckoo  in  the  distance,  as  of 
anything  we  heard  of  our  little  neighbours.  We 
did  not  see  them ;  only  once,  as  I  was  running  along 
the  passage,  I  caught  a  glimpse  at  the  other  end  of 
a  little  pinafored  figure  led  by  a  nurse,  disappearing 
through  a  doorway.  I  did  not  see  its  face ;  in  fact 
the  glimpse  was  of  the  hastiest.  Yet  something 
about  the  wee  figure,  a  certain  round-about  bunchi- 
ness,  and  a  sort  of  pulling  back  from  the  maid,  as 
she  went  into  the  room,  recalled  vaguely  to  my  heart, 
rather  than  to  my  mind,  two  little  toddling  creat- 
ures, that  far  away  across  the  sea  I  had  learnt  to 
love  and  look  for.  When  I  went  into  our  room, 
there  were  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  when  mamma  asked 
me  the  reason,  I  told  her  that  I  had  seen  a  child 
that  somehow  had  reminded  me  of  my  two  little 
trots. 

4  "  Poor  little  trots,"  said  mamma.  "  I  wonder  if 
the  one  that  was  left  still  misses  the  other  ?  " 

4  But  that  was  all  we  said  about  them. 

4  The  next  morning  I  was  in  a  fever  to  go  out  and 
see  all  that  was  to  be  seen.  I  dragged  poor  mamma 
into  all  the  churches,  and  half  the  shops,  and  would 


"THE   TWO   FUNNY  LITTLE  TKOTS."  159 

have  had  her  all  through  the  castle  too,  but  that  she 
declared  she  could  do  no  more.  So  we  came  to  a 
halt  at  the  great  "  Place,"  and  sat  down  on  a  nice 
shady  seat  to  watch  the  people.  I,  consoling  myself 
with  the  reflection,  that  as  we  were  to  be  four  months 
at  Pau,  there  was  still  a  little  time  left  for  sight- 
seeing. 

4  It  was  very  amusing.  There  were  people  of  all 
nations  —  children  of  all  nations,  little  French  boys 
and  girls,  prettily  but  simply  dressed,  some  chatting 
merrily,  some  walking  primly  beside  their  white- 
capped  bonnes ;  little  Russians,  looking  rather 
grand,  but  not  so  grand  as  their  nurses  in  their 
rich  costumes  of  bright  scarlet  and  blue,  embroid- 
ered in  gold;  some  very  pert,  shrill-voiced  Ameri- 
cans, and  a  few  unmistakable  English.  We  amused 
ourselves  by  guessing  the  nationality  of  all  these 
little  people. 

'"Those  are  Italians  or  Spaniards,  mamma,  look 
what  dark  eyes  they  have,  and  those  are  —  "I  sud- 
denly stopped.  "  Oh,  mamma  !  "  I  exclaimed,  and 
when  she  looked  at  me,  she  saw  I  had  grown  quite 
pale,  and  in  another  moment,  seeing  to  what  I  was 
pointing,  she  understood  the  reason.  There,  right 
before  us,  coming  slowly  up  the  middle  of  the  Place, 
Bessie  in  the  middle,  each  child  with  a  hand  of  hers 
tugging  back  manfully  in  the  old  way,  each,  yes, 
really,  each  under  the  other  arm  hugging  a  woolly 
lamb,  came  the  two  funny  little  trots  I 


160 

4 1  felt  at  first  as  if  I  were  dreaming.  Could  it  be 
the  trots  ?  I  sat  still  in  a  half  stupid  way,  staring, 
but  Gip  —  I  was  forgetting  to  tell  you  that  of  course 
Gip  had  come  with  us  to  Pau  —  Gip  had  far  more 
presence  of  mind  than  I.  He  did  not  stop  to 
wonder  how  it  could  be  the  trots,  he  was  simply 
satisfied  that  it  was  the  trots,  and  forwards  he  darted, 
leaping,  barking  furiously,  wagging  his  tail,  giving 
every  sort  of  welcome  in  dog  language,  that  he 
could  think  of. 

4 "  Dip,  Dip;  see  Bessie,  here  is  a  doggie  like  Dip," 
said  one  trot. 

'  "  Dip,  Dip,  pretty  Dip,"  said  the  other. 

'  The  sound  of  their  voices  seemed  to  bring  back 
my  common  sense.  They  were  my  own  dear  trots. 
"  Dip,  Dip  "  would  have  satisfied  me,  even  if  I  had 
not  seen  them.  The  trots  never  could  manage  the 
letter  "  G"!  I  flew  forwards,  and  kneeling  down  on 
the  ground,  little  caring  how  I  soiled  my  nice  new 
dress,  or  what  the  people  on  the  Place  thought  of 
me,  I  regularly  hugged  my  two  pets. 

4 "  Here  is  Dip's  kind  lady  too,"  they  both  said  at 
once,  smiling  and  happy,  but  not  by  any  means  par- 
ticularly surprised  to  see  me.  I  looked  up  at  Bessie 
at  last,  and  held  out  my  hand.  She  shook  it  heartily. 

'  "  I  am  pleased  to  see  you  again,  miss,  to  be  sure ; 
who  would  have  thought  it?"  she  said.  "  And  they 
haven't  forgot  you,  haven't  Doll  and  Dot.  They  are 
always  speaking  of  Gip  and  you,  miss." 


"THE   TWO   FUNNY   LITTLE  TROTS."  161 

'  "  But,  Bessie,"  I  began,  and  then  I  hesitated. 
How  could  I  tell  her  what  I  had  thought?  "How 
was  it  you  left  St.  Austin's  so  suddenly?"  —  the 
trots  were  not  in  mourning  now,  they  were  pret- 
tily dressed  in  dark  blue  sailor  serge,  as  bunchy  as 
ever. 

4  Bessie  thought  for  a  minute. 

4 "  Let  me  see,"  she  said,  "  oh  yes,  I  remember  ! 
We  did  leave  suddenly.  My  mistress's  father  died, 
and  she  was  sent  for  off  to  Edinburgh,  and  she  took 
Doll  and  me,  and  left  Dot  to  keep  her  papa  com- 
pany. Master  said  he'd  be  lost  without  one  of  them, 
and  he  couldn't  get  off  to  Edinburgh  for  a  fortnight 
after  us.  But  we'll  never  try  that  again,  miss. 
Dot  did  nothing  but  cry  for  Doll,  and  Doll  for 
Dot.  Dot,  so  Martha  the  housemaid  said,  was  always 
saying,  4  Doll's  done  to  'Ebben,'  till  it  was  pitiful  to 
hear,  and  Dot  was  just  as  bad  in  Edinburgh  about 
Doll." 

4 "  But  Dot  did  do  to  'Ebben,"  said  Doll,  who  as 
well  as  Dot  was  listening  to  what  Bessie  was  saying. 
"  And  then  Doll  tummed  to  'Ebben  too,"  said  Dot, 
"  and  then  'Ebben  was  nice." 

4 1  kissed  the  pets  again,  partly  to  prevent  Bessie 
seeing  the  tears  in  my  eyes.  I  understood  it  all 
now,  without  asking  any  more,  and  Bessie  never 
knew  what  it  was  I  had  thought. 

4  Only  you  can  fancy  how  sorry  I  was  to  find  the 
trots  were  leaving  Pau  that  very  afternoon !  They 


162  "  CARROTS." 

were  the  children  whose  dear  little  voices  I  had 
heard  through  the  wall,  who  the  landlord  had  feared 
might  disturb  us !  They  were  going  on  to  Italy  for 
the  winter. 

4 "  If  only  I  had  known  last  night  who  they  were," 
I  said  to  mamma  regretfully. 

'Mamma,  however,  was  always  wise.  "Think 
rather,"  she  said,  "  how  very  glad  you  should  be 
to  know  it  this  morning.  And  who  can  tell  but 
what  some  time  or  other  you  may  see  the  trots 
again." 

«  But  I  never  did  I '  " 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

GOOD   ENDINGS. 

But  I  lost  my  happy  childhood. 

***** 
It  slipped  from  me  you  shall  know, 

It  was  in  the  dewy  alleys 
Of  the  land  of  long  ago. 

***** 
Not  in  sadness, 

Nor  reproach,  these  words  I  say, 
God  is  good,  and  gives  new  gladness, 

When  the  old  He  takes  away. 

"  You  never  did  ?  oh  what  a  pity ! "  exclaimed 
Sybil.  "  You  really  never,  never  did,  mother  ?  " 

Auntie  looked  rather  "funny,"  as  the  children 
call  it. 

"  As  trots  I  never  saw  them  again,"  she  said,  "  and 
at  the  time  I  wrote  out  that  story  I  had  not  seen 
them  again  at  all." 

"But  you've  seen  them  since,"  cried  all  the 
three  children  at  once,  "you've  seen  them  since 
they've  grown  big.  Oh  auntie,  oh  mother,  do  tell 
us." 

"I  couldn't  just  now,  truly  I  couldn't,"  said 
auntie,  "  it  would  lead  me  into  another  story  which 
isn't  written  yet.  All  that  I  know  about  '  the  two 

163 


164 

funny  little  trots '  I  have  told  you.  Do  you  like 
it?" 

"  Awfully,"  said  Sybil. 

"  Very  much,"  said  Floss. 

"  It's  lovely,"  said  Carrots. 

Auntie  smiled  at  the  children.  They  looked  so 
pleased  and  interested,  it  was  evident  that  for  the 
time  they  had  forgotten  their  sorrow  and  anxiety. 
Suddenly,  just  as  she  was  thinking  sadly  how  soon 
it  must  return  to  their  minds,  there  came  a  loud  ring 
at  the  bell.  They  all  started,  they  had  been  sitting 
so  quietly. 

"  It  must  be  the  post,"  said  Sybil.  Auntie  had 
thought  so  too,  but  had  not  said  it,  as  it  was  very 
unlikely  this  post  would  bring  any  letter  from 
Captain  Desart. 

It  did  however!  Fletcher  appeared  with  one  in 
another  minute ;  the  thin  large  envelope,  and  the 
black,  rather  scrawly  writing  that  Floss  and  Carrots 
knew  so  well.  It  would  have  been  no  use  trying  to 
conceal  it  from  them,  so  auntie  opened  it  quietly, 
though  her  ringers  trembled  as  she  did  so.  She  read 
it  very  quickly,  it  was  not  a  long  letter,  and  then  she 
looked  up  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Children, 
dear  children,"  she  said,  "it  is  good  news.  Your 
dear  mother  is  a  little  better,  and  they  have  good 
hopes  of  her." 

Oh  how  glad  they  were  !  They  kissed  auntie  and 
Sybil  and  each  other,  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  great 


GOOD   ENDINGS.  165 

heavy  stone  had  been  lifted  off  their  hearts.  There 
was  still  of  course  reason  for  anxiety,  but  there  was 
hope,  "  good  hope,"  wrote  Captain  Desart,  and  what 
does  not  that  mean  ?  Auntie  felt  so  hopeful  herself 
that  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  check  the 
children  for  being  so. 

"It  is  because  you  made  the  story  of  the  trots 
end  nicely  that  that  nice  letter  came,"  said  Sybil, 
and  nothing  that  her  mother  could  say  would 
persuade  her  that  she  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  ending,  that  she  had  just  told  it  as  it  really 
happened ! 

Jam  telling  you  the  story  of  Floss  and  Carrots 
as  it  really  happened  too,  and  I  am  so  glad  that 
it  —  the  story  of  this  part  of  their  young  lives,  that 
is  to  say  —  ends  happily  too.  Their  mother  did  get 
better,  wonderfully  better,  and  was  able  to  come 
back  to  England  in  the  spring,  looking  stronger 
than  for  many  years.  To  England,  but  not  to 
Sandyshore.  Captain  Desart  got  another  appoint- 
ment much  farther  south,  where  the  climate  was 
milder  and  better  and  the  winters  not  to  be  dreaded 
for  a  delicate  person.  So  they  all  left  the  Cove 
House ! 

Their  new  home  was  of  course  by  the  sea  too, 
but  Carrots  never  would  allow  that  it  was  the 
same  sea.  His  own  old  sea  stayed  behind  at  Sandy- 
shore,  though  if  he  were  to  go  to  look  for  it  there 
now  I  doubt  if  he  would  find  it.  When  old 


166 

friends  once  get  away  into  the  country  of  long  ago, 
they  are  hard  to  find  again  —  we  learn  to  doubt 
if  they  are  to  be  found  anywhere  except  in  their 
own  corners  of  our  memory. 

And  it  is  long  ago  now  since  the  days  when 
Carrots  and  his  dear  Floss  ran  races  on  the  sands 
and  made  "  plans "  together.  Long  ago,  in  so  far 
that  you  would  not  be  able  anywhere  to  find  these 
children  whom  I  loved  so  much,  and  whom  I  have 
told  you  a  little  about.  You  would,  at  least  I 
hope  you  would,  like  to  know  what  became  of  them, 
how  they  grew  up,  and  what  Carrots  did  when  he 
got  to  be  a  man.  But  this  I  cannot  now  tell 
you,  for  my  little  book  is  long  enough  —  I  only 
hope  you  are  not  tired  of  it  —  only  I  may  tell 
j^ou  one  thing.  If  any  of  you  know  a  very  good, 
kind,  gentle,  brave  man  —  so  good  that  he  cannot 
but  be  kind ;  so  brave  that  he  cannot  but  be  gentle, 
I  should  like  you  to  think  that,  perhaps,  whatever 
he  is  —  clergyman,  doctor,  soldier,  sailor,  it  doesn't 
matter  in  the  least — perhaps  when  that  man  was 
a  boy,  he  was  my  little  Carrots.  Especially  if 
he  has  large  "doggy-looking,"  brown  eyes,  and 
hair  that  once  might  have  been  called  "red." 


THE   ENDo 


"THE  STORY  OF  SUNNY."— p.  63. 

— Frontispiece. 


A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD 


State!)  of  a 


BY 


MKS.  MOLESWOETH 

AUTHOR  OF  "  CARROTS,"  "  CUCKOO  CLOCK,"  "  TELL  MB  A  STORY," 
ETC.,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  WALTER  CRANE 


"  O  Christmas,  merry  Christmas  ! 

Is  it  really  come  again  ? 
With  its  memories  and  greetings, 
With  its  joy  and  with  its  pain  " 


MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

AND    LONDON 
1893 

All  rights  reserved 


First  Edition  printed  1880.     Reprinted  1886,  1888,  1892. 


TO 


WHO   WILL   BEST   UNDERSTAND 
THIS    SIMPLE    LITTLE    STORY 

I    DEDICATE    IT 
WITH   MUCH   AFFECTION 


PARIS,  May,  1880 


A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

BABY  TED. 

"Where  did  you  get  those  eyes  so  blue?" 
"  Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through." 

CHRISTMAS  WEEK  a  good  many  years  ago.  Not 
an  "old-fashioned"  Christmas  this  year,  for  there 
was  no  snow  or  ice;  the  sky  was  clear  and  the  air 
pure,  but  yet  without  the  sharp,  bracing  clearness 
and  purity  that  Master  Jack  Frost  brings  when  he 
comes  to  see  us  in  one  of  his  nice,  bright,  sunny 
humours.  For  he  has  humours  as  well  as  other 
people  —  not  only  is  he  fickle  in  the  extreme,  but 
even  black  sometimes,  and  he  is  then,  I  can  assure 
you,  a  most  disagreeable  visitor.  But  this  Christ- 
mas time  he  had  taken  it  into  his  head  not  to  come 
at  all,  and  the  world  looked  rather  reproachful  and 
disconcerted.  The  poor,  bare  December  world  —  it 
misses  its  snow  garment,  so  graciously  hiding  all 
imperfections  revealed  by  the  absence  of  green  grass 
and  fluttering  leaves;  it  misses,  too,  its  winter 

1 


Z  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD.- 

jewels  of  icicles  and  hoar  frost.  Poor  old  world! 
What  a  great  many  Decembers  you  have  jogged 
through;  no  wonder  you  begin  to  feel  that  you  need 
a  little  dressing  up  and  adorning,  like  a  beauty  no 
longer  as  young  as  she  has  been.  Yet  ever-young 
world,  too!  Who,  that  gazes  at  March's  daffodils 
and  sweet  April's  primroses,  can  believe  that  the 
world  is  growing  old?  Sometimes  one  could  almost 
wish  that  it  would  leave  off  being  so  exquisitely, 
so  heartlessly  young.  For  the  daffodils  nod  their 
golden  heads,  the  primroses  smile  up  through  their 
leafy  nests  —  year  after  year,  they  never  fail  us. 
But  the  children  that  loved  them  so;  the  little  feet 
that  trotted  so  eagerly  down  the  lanes,  the  tiny 
hands  that  gathered  the  flower-treasures  with  such 
delight  —  where  are  they  all?  Men  and  women, 
some  in  far-off  lands,  perhaps;  or  too  wearied  by 
cares  and  sorrows  to  look  for  the  spring  flowers  of 
long  ago.  And  some  —  the  sweetest  of  all,  these 
seem  —  farther  away  still,  and  yet  surely  nearer? 
in  the  happier  land,  whose  flowers  our  fancy  tries 
in  vain  to  picture. 

But  I  am  forgetting  a  little,  I  think,  that  I  am 
going  to  tell  about  a  child  to  children,  and  that 
my  "tellings"  begin,  not  in  March  or  April,  but  at 
Christmas  time.  Christmas  time,  fortunately,  does 
not  depend  on  Jack  Frost  for  all  its  pleasures. 
Christmas  boxes  are  just  as  welcome  without  as 
with  his  presence.  And  never  was  a  Christmas 


BABY   TED.  6 

box  more  welcome  than  one  that  came  to  a  certain 
house  by  the  sea  one  twenty-sixth  of  December, 
now  a  good  many  years  ago. 

Yet  it  was  not  a  very  big  present,  nor  a  very 
uncommon  present.  But  it  was  very  precious,  and, 
to  my  thinking,  very,  very  pretty;  for  it  was  a  wee 
baby  boy.  Such  a  dear  wee  baby,  I  think  you 
would  have  called  it;  so  neat  and  tiny,  and  with 
such  nice  baby-blue  eyes.  Its  hands  and  feet, 
especially,  were  very  delightful.  "Almost  as  pretty 
as  newly-hatched  ducklings,  aren't  they?"  a  little 
girl  I  know  once  said  of  some  baby  feet  that  she 
was  admiring,  and  I  really  think  she  was  right. 
No  wonder  was  it,  that  the  happy  people  in  the 
house  by  the  sea  were  very  proud  of  their  Christ- 
mas box,  that  the  baby's  mother,  especially,  thought 
there  never  was,  never  could  be,  anything  so  sweet 
as  her  baby  Ted. 

But  poor  baby  Ted  had  not  long  to  wait  for  his 
share  of  the  troubles  which  we  are  told  come  to  all, 
though  it  does  seem  as  if  some  people,  and  children 
too,  had  more  than  others.  He  was  a  very  delicate 
little  baby.  His  mother  did  not  notice  it  at  first, 
because,  you  see,  he  was  the  first  baby  she  had  ever 
had  of  her  very  own,  and  she  was  too  pleased  to 
think  him  anything  but  perfect.  And  indeed  he 
was  perfect  of  his  kind,  only  there  was  so  little  of 
him!  He  was  like  one  of  those  very,  very  tiny 
little  white  flowers  that  one  has  to  hunt  under  the 


4  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

hedges  for,  and  which  surprise  you  by  their  dainti- 
ness when  you  look  at  them  closely.  Only  such 
fragile  daintiness  needs  tender  handling,  and  these 
little  half-opened  buds  sometimes  shrink  from  the 
touch  of  even  the  kindest  of  mothers  and  nurses, 
and  gently  fade  out  of  their  sight  to  bloom  in  a 
sunnier  and  softer  clime  than  ours.  And  knowing 
this,  a  cold  chill  crept  round  the  heart  of  little 
Ted's  mother  when  his  nurse,  who  was  older  and 
wiser  than  she,  shook  her  head  sadly  as  she  owned 
that  he  was  about  the  tiniest  baby  she  had  ever 
seen.  But  the  cold  chill  did  not  stay  there.  Ted, 
who  was  scarcely  a  month  old,  gave  a  sudden  smile 
of  baby  pleasure  as  she  was  anxiously  looking  at 
him.  He  had  caught  sight  of  some  bright  flowers 
on  the  wall,  and  his  blue  eyes  had  told  him  that 
the  proper  thing  to  do  was  to  smile  at  them.  And 
his  smile  was  to  his  mother  like  the  sun  breaking 
through  a  cloud. 

"I  will  not  be  afraid  for  my  darling,"  said  she. 
"God  knows  what  is  best  for  him,  but  I  think,  I 
do  think,  he  will  live  to  grow  a  healthy,  happy 
boy.  How  could  a  Christmas  child  be  anything 
else?" 

And  she  was  right.  Day  after  day,  week  by 
week,  month  after  month,  the  wee  man  grew  bigger 
and  stronger.  It  was  not  all  smooth  sailing,  how- 
ever. He  had  to  fight  pretty  hard  for  his  little 
share  of  the  world  and  of  life  sometimes.  And 


BABY   TED.  O 

many  a  sad  fit  of  baby-crying  made  his  mother's 
heart  ache  as  she  asked  herself  if  after  all  it  might 
not  be  better  for  her  poor  little  boy  to  give  up  the 
battle  which  seemed  so  trying  to  him.  But  no  — 
that  was  not  Master  Ted's  opinion  at  all.  He 
cried,  and  he  would  not  go  to  sleep,  and  he  cried 
again.  But  all  through  the  crying  and  the  rest- 
lessness he  was  growing  stronger  and  bigger. 

"The  world  strikes  me  as  not  half  a  bad  place. 
I  mean  to  look  about  me  in  it  and  see  all  that 
there  is  to  be  seen,"  I  could  fancy  his  baby  mind 
thinking  to  itself,  when  he  was  held  at  his  nursery 
window,  and  his  bright  eyes  gazed  out  unweariedly 
at  the  beautiful  sights  to  be  seen  from  it  —  the 
mountains  in  the  distance  lifting  their  grand  old 
heads  to  the  glorious  sky,  which  Ted  looked  as  if 
he  knew  a  good  deal  about  if  he  chose  to  tell ;  the 
sea  near  at  hand  with  its  ever-changing  charm  and 
the  white  sails  scudding  along  in  the  sunlight. 
Ah  yes,  little  Ted  was  in  the  right  —  the  world  is 
a  very  pretty  place,  and  a  baby  boy  \vhose  special 
corner  of  it  is  where  his  was,  is  a  very  lucky  little 
person,  notwithstanding  the  pains  and  grievances 
of  babyhood. 

And  before  long  Ted's  fits  of  crying  became  so 
completely  a  thing  of  the  past  that  it  was  really 
difficult  to  believe  in  them.  All  his  grumbling 
and  complaining  and  tears  were  got  over  in  these 
first  few  months.  For  "once  he  had  got  a  start," 


6  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

as  his  nurse  called  it,  never  was  there  a  happier 
little  fellow.  Everything  came  right  to  him,  and 
the  few  clouds  that  now  and  then  floated  over  his 
skies  but  made  the  sunshine  seem  the  brighter. 

And  day  by  day  the  world  grew  prettier  and 
pleasanter  to  him.  It  had  been  very  pleasant  to 
be  carried  out  in  his  nurse's  arms  or  wheeled  along 
in  his  little  carriage,  but  when  it  came  to  toddling 
on  the  nice  firm  sands  on  his  own  sturdy  legs,  and 
sometimes — when  nurse  would  let  him  —  going 
"kite  kite  close"  to  the  playful  waves,  and  then 
jumping  back  again  when  they  "pertended,"  as  he 
said,  to  wet  his  little  feet  —  ah,  that  was  too 
delightful!  And  almost  more  delightful  still  was 
it  to  pick  up  nice  smooth  stones  on  the  beach  and 
try  how  far  he  could  throw  them  into  the  sea.  The 
sea  was  so  pretty  and  kind,  he  thought.  It  was 
for  a  long  time  very  difficult  for  him  to  believe 
that  it  could  ever  be  angry  and  raging  and  wild,  as 
he  used  to  hear  said,  for  of  course  on  wet  or  stormy 
days  little  Ted  never  went  down  to  the  shore,  but 
stayed  at  home  in  his  own  warm  nursery. 

There  were  pretty  shells  and  stones  and  seaweed 
to  be  found  on  this  delightful  sea-shore.  Ted  was 
too  little  to  care  much  for  such  quiet  business  as 
gathering  stones  and  shells,  but  one  day  when  he 
was  walking  with  his  mother  she  stopped  so  often 
to  pick  up  and  examine  any  that  took  her  fancy, 
that  at  last  Ted's  curiosity  was  awakened. 


BABY   TED.  7 

"What  is  thoo  doing?"  he  said  gravely,  as  if  not 
quite  sure  that  his  mother  Avas  behaving  correctly, 
for  nurse  always  told  him  to  "walk  on  straight, 
there's  a  good  boy,  Master  Ted,"  and  it  was  a  little 
puzzling  to  understand  that  mammas  might  do  what 
little  boys  must  not.  It  was  one  of  the  puzzles 
which  Ted  found  there  were  a  good  many  of  in  the 
world,  and  which  he  had  to  think  over  a  good  deal 
in  his  own  mind  before  it  grew  clear  to  him. 
"What  is  thoo  doing?"  he  asked. 

"  I  am  looking  for  pretty  stones  to  take  home  and 
keep,"  replied  his  mother. 

"Pitty  'tones,"  repeated  Ted,  and  then  he  said 
no  more,  but  some  new  ideas  had  wakened  in  his 
baby  mind. 

Nurse  noticed  that  he  was  quieter  than  usual  that 
afternoon,  for  already  Ted  was  a  good  deal  of  a 
chatterbox.  But  his  eyes  looked  bright,  and  plainly 
he  had  some  pleasant  thought  in  his  head.  The 
next  day  was  fine,  and  he  went  off  with  nurse  for 
his  walk.  He  looked  a  little  anxious  as  they  got 
to  the  turn  of  the  road,  or  rather  to  the  joining  of 
two  roads,  one  of  which  led  to  the  sea,  the  other 
into  country  lanes. 

"Thoo  is  doing  to  the  sea?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  dear,"  nurse  replied,  and  Ted's  face  cleared. 
When  they  got  to  the  share  he  trotted  on  quietly, 
but  his  eyes  were  very  busy,  busier  even  than 
usual.  They  looked  about  them  in  all  directions, 


8  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

till  at  last  they  spied  what  they  wanted,  and  for 
half  a  minute  or  so  nurse  did  not  notice  that  her 
little  charge  had  left  her  side  and  was  lagging 
behind. 

"What  are  you  about,  Master  Ted?"  she  said 
hastil}-,  as  glancing  round  she  saw  him  stooping 
down  —  not  that  he  had  very  far  to  stoop,  poor 
little  man  —  and  struggling  to  lift  some  object  at 
his  feet. 

"A  'tone,"  he  cried,  "a  beauty  big  'tone  for  Ted's 
muzzer,"  lifting  in  his  arms  a  big  round  stone  — 
one  of  the  kind  that  as  children  we  used  to  say 
had  dropped  from  the  moon  —  which  by  its  nice 
round  shape  and  speckledness  had  caught  his  eye. 
"Ted  will  eally  it  hisself." 

And  with  a  very  red  face,  he  lugged  it  manfully 
along. 

"Let  me  help  you  with  it,  dear,"  said  nurse. 

But  "No,  zank  thoo,"  he  replied  firmly  each  time 
that  the  offer  was  repeated.  "  Ted  must  cally  it  his 
own  self." 

And  "  cally  "  it  he  did,  all  the  way.  Nurse  could 
only  succeed  in  getting  him  to  put  it  down  now 
and  then  to  rest  a  bit,  as  she  said,  for  the  stone  was 
really  so  big  a  one  that  she  was  afraid  of  it  seriously 
tiring  his  arms.  More  than  once  she  pointed  out 
prettier  and  smaller  stones,  and  tried  to  suggest 
that  his  mother  might  like  them  quite  as  well,  or 
better;  but  no.  The  bigness,  the  heaviness  even, 


BABY   TED.  9 

was  its  charm;  to  do  something  that  cost  him  an 
effort  for  mother  he  felt  vaguely  was  his  wish; 
the  "lamp  of  sacrifice,"  of  se {/"-sacrifice,  had  been 
lighted  in  his  baby  heart,  never  again  to  be  extin- 
guished. 

And,  oh,  the  happiness  in  that  little  heart  when 
at  last  he  reached  his  mother's  room,  still  lugging 
the  heavy  stone,  and  laid  it  at  her  feet ! 

"Ted  broughtened  it  for  thoo,"  he  exclaimed 
triumphantly.  And  mother  was  so  pleased!  The 
stone  took  up  its  place  at  once  on  the  mantelpiece 
as  an  ornament,  and  the  wearied  little  man  climbed 
up  on  to  his  mother's  knee,  with  a  look  of  such 
delight  and  satisfaction  as  is  sweet  to  be  seen  on 
a  childish  face. 

So  Ted's  education  began.  He  was  growing 
beyond  the  birds  and  the  flowers  already,  though 
only  a  tiny  man  of  three;  and  every  day  he  found 
new  things  to  wonder  at,  and  admire,  and  ask  ques- 
tions about,  and,  unlike  some  small  people  of  his 
age,  he  always  listened  to  the  answers. 

After  a  while  he  found  prettier  presents  to  bring 
home  to  his  mother  than  big  stones.  With  the 
spring  days  the  flowers  came  back,  and  Ted,  who 
last  year  had  been  too  little  to  notice  them  much, 
grew  to  like  the  other  turning  of  the  road  almost 
better  than  that  which  led  to  the  sea.  For  down 
the  lanes,  hiding  in  among  the  hedges,  or  more 
boldly  smiling  up  at  him  in  the  fields,  he  learnt  to 


10  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

know  the  old  friends  that  all  happy  children  love 
so  dearly. 

One  day  he  found  some  flowers  that  seemed  to 
him  prettier  than  any  he  had  ever  seen,  and  full 
of  delight  he  trudged  home  with  a  baby  bouquet  of 
them  in  his  little  hot  hands.  It  was  getting  past 
spring  into  summer  now,  and  Ted  felt  a  little  tired 
by  the  time  he  and  his  nurse  had  reached  the  house, 
and  he  ran  in  as  usual  to  find  his  mother  and  relate 
his  adventures. 

"Ted  has  broughtened  some  most  beauty  flowers," 
he  eagerly  cried,  and  his  mother  stooped  down  to 
kiss  and  thank  him,  even  though  she  was  busy 
talking  to  some  ladies  who  had  come  to  see  her, 
and  whom  Ted  in  his  hurry  had  hardly  noticed. 
He  glanced  round  at  them  now  with  curiosity  and 
interest.  He  rather  liked  ladies  to  come  to  see  his 
mother,  only  he  would  have  liked  it  still  better  if 
they  would  have  just  let  him  stay  quietly  beside 
her,  looking  at  them  and  listening  to  what  they 
said,  without  noticing  him.  But  that  way  of  behav- 
ing would  not  have  seemed  kind,  and  as  Ted  grew 
older  he  understood  this,  and  learnt  that  it  was 
right  to  feel  pleased  at  being  spoken  to  and  even 
kissed. 

"How  well  Ted  is  looking,"  said  one  of  the 
ladies  to  his  mother.  "  He  is  growing  quite  a  big, 
strong  boy.  And  what  pretty  flowers  he  has 
brought  you.  Are  you  very  fond  of  flowers,  my 
little  man?" 


BABY   TED.  11 

"Ses,"  said  Ted,  looking  up  in  the  lady's  face. 

"The  wild  flowers  about  here  are  very  pretty," 
said  another  of  the  ladies. 

"Very  pretty,"  said  his  mother;  "but  it  is  curi- 
ous, is  it  not,  that  there  are  no  cowslips  in  this 
country?  They  are  such  favourites  of  mine.  I 
have  such  pleasant  remembrances  of  them  as  a 
child." 

She  turned,  for  Ted  was  tugging  gently  at  her 
sleeve.  "  What  is  towslips  ?  "  he  asked. . 

"  Pretty  little  yellow  flowers,  something  like  prim- 
roses," said  his  mother. 

"Oh!"  said  Ted.  Then  nurse  knocked  at  the 
door,  and  told  him  his  tea  was  ready,  and  so  he 
trotted  off. 

"Mother  loves  towslips,"  he  said  to  himself  two 
or  three  times  over,  till  his  nurse  asked  him  what 
he  was  talking  about. 

"But  there's  no  cowslips  here,"  said  nurse,  when 
he  had  repeated  it. 

"No,"  said  Ted;  "but  p'raps  Ted  could  find 
some.  Ted  will  go  and  look  to-morrow  with 
nursey." 

"To-morrow's  Sunday,  Master  Ted,"  said  nurse; 
"I'll  be  going  to  church." 

"What's  church?"  he  asked. 

"  Church  is  everybody  praying  to  God,  all  together 
in  a  big  house.  Don't  you  remember,  Master 
Ted?" 


12  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

"Oh  ses,  Ted  'members,"  he  replied.  "What's 
praying  to  Dod,  nurse?" 

"Why,  I  am  sure  you  know  that,  Master  Ted. 
You  must  have  forgotten.  Ask  your  mamma 
again." 

Ted  took  her  advice.  Later  in  the  evening  he 
went  downstairs  to  say  good-night.  His  mother 
was  outside,  walking  about  the  garden,  for  it  was 
a  beautiful  summer  evening.  Ted  ran  to  her;  but 
on  his  way  something  caught  his  eye,  which  sent 
a  pang  to  his  little  heart.  It  was  the  bunch  of 
flowers  he  had  gathered  for  her,  lying  withered 
already,  poor  little  things,  on  a  bench  just  by  the 
door,  where  she  had  laid  them  when  saying  good- 
bye to  her  visitors.  Ted  stopped  short;  his  face 
grew  very  red,  and  big  tears  rose  slowly  to  his 
eyes.  He  was  carefully  collecting  them  together 
in  his  little  hand  when  his  mother  called  to  him. 

"Come,  Ted,  dear,"  she  said;  "what  are  you 
about?" 

More  slowly  than  his  wont  Ted  trotted  towards 
her.  "Muzzer  doesn't  care  for  zem,"  he  said,  hold- 
ing out  his  neglected  offering.  "Poor  f'owers  dies 
when  they's  leaved  out  of  water." 

"My  darling,"  said  his  mother  with  real  sorrow 
in  her  voice,  "I  am  so  sorry,  so  very  sorry,  dear 
little  Ted,"  and  she  stooped  to  kiss  him.  "Give 
them  to  me  now,  and  I  will  always  keep  them." 

Ted  was  quickly  consoled. 


BABY  TED.  13 

"Zem's  not  towslips,"  he  said  regretfully.  "Ted 
would  like  towslips  for  muzzer."  And  then  with  a 
quick  change  of  thought  he  went  on,  "  What  is 
praying  to  Dod?"  he  said,  looking  up  eagerly  with 
his  bright  blue  eyes. 

"Praying  to  God  means  asking  Him  anything 
we  want,  and  then  He  answers  us.  Just  as  you 
ask  me  something,  and  I  answer  you.  And  if  what 
we  ask  is  good  for  us,  He  gives  it  us.  That  is  one 
way  of  answering  our  prayers,  but  there  are  many 
ways.  You  will  understand  better  when  you  are 
bigger,  dear  little  Ted." 

Ted  asked  no  more,  but  a  bright  pleased  look 
came  into  his  face.  He  was  fond  of  asking  ques- 
tions, but  he  did  not  ask  silly  ones,  nor  tease  and 
tease  as  some  children  do,  and,  as  I  said,  when  he 
got  an  answer  he  thought  it  well  over  in  his  little 
head  till  he  got  to  understand,  or  thought  he  under- 
stood. Till  now  his  mother  had  thought  him  too 
little  to  teach  him  to  say  his  prayers,  but  now  in 
her  own  mind  she  began  to  feel  he  was  getting 
old  enough  to  say  some  simple  prayer  night  and 
morning,  and  she  resolved  to  teach  him  some  day 
soon. 

So  now  she  kissed  him  and  bade  him  good-night. 

"God  bless  my  little  boy,"  she  said,  as  she  patted 
his  head  with  its  soft  fair  hair  which  hung  in  pretty 
careless  curls,  and  was  cut  across  the  forehead  in 
front  like  one  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  cherubs. 


14  A  CHRISTMAS   CHIKQ. 

"God  bless  my  little  boy,"  she  said,  and  Ted  trotted 
off  again,  still  with  the  bright  look  on  his  face. 
.    He    let    nurse   put   him    to    bed   very   "goodly," 
though  bed-time  never  came  very  welcomely  to  the 
active  little  man. 

"Now  go  to  sleep,  Master  Ted,  dear,"  said  nurse 
as  she  covered  him  up  and  then  left  the  room,  as 
she  was  busy  about  some  work  that  evening. 

Ted's  room  was  next  to  his  mother's.  Indeed, 
if  the  doors  were  left  open,  it  was  quite  easy  to 
talk  one  to  the  other.  This  evening  his  mother 
happened  to  go  upstairs  not  long  after  he  had  been 
tucked  into  bed.  She  was  arranging  some  things 
in  her  own  room,  moving  about  quietly  not  to  waken 
him,  if,  as  she  hoped,  he  had  fallen  asleep,  for  fall- 
ing asleep  did  not  come  so  easily  to  Ted  as  to 
some  children.  He  was  too  busy  in  his  mind,  he 
had  too  many  things  to  think  about  and  wonder 
about  for  his  brain  to  settle  itself  quietly  all  in  a 
minute.  And  if  he  had  a  strong  wish,  I  think  it 
was  that  going-to-bed  time  should  never  come  at  all ! 

For  a  minute  or  two  no  sound  reached  Ted's 
mother. 

"I  do  hope  he  is  asleep,"  she  said  to  herself, 
but  just  then  she  stopped  short  to  listen.  Ted 
was  speaking  to  himself  softly,  but  clearly  and 
distinctly.  What  could  he  be  saying?  His  mother 
listened  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  but  the  smile 
grew  into  a  sort  of  sweet  gravity  as  she  distin- 


BABY   TED.  15 

guished  the  words.  Little  Ted  was  praying.  He 
had  not  waited  for  her  to  teach  him  —  his  baby- 
spirit  had  found  out  the  simple  way  for  itself  —  he 
was  just  asking  God  for  what  he  wanted. 

"Please,  dear  Dod,"  he  said,  "tell  me  why  thoo 
won't  make  towslips  grow  in  this  countly.  Muzzer 
loves  zem  so." 

Then  came  a  perfect  silence.  Ted  seemed  to 
be  holding  his  breath  in  expectation,  and  somehow 
his  mother  .too  stood  as  still  as  could  be.  And 
after  a  minute  or  two  the  little  voice  began 
again. 

"Please,  dear  Dod,  please  do  tell  me,"  and  then 
the  silence  returned  as  before.  It  did  not  last  so 
long,  however,  this  time  —  not  more  than  a  minute 
at  most  had  passed  when  a  sound  of  faint  crying 
broke  upon  Ted's  mother's  hearing  —  the  little  fel- 
low had  burst  into  tears. 

Then  his  mother  could  stay  away  no  longer. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  boy?"  she  said;  anx- 
ious, baby  though  he  was,  not  to  make  him  feel 
ashamed  of  his  innocent  prayers  by  finding  that 
she  had  overheard  what  he  had  said  when  he 
thought  himself  alone. 

"  What  is  my  Ted  crying  about?" 

The  tears,  which  had  stopped  for  an  instant,  came 
back  again. 

"Muzzer,"  he  said,  "Dod  won't  'peak  to  Ted. 
Ted  p'ayed  and  p'ayed,  and  Ted  was  kite  kite 


16  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

kiet,  but  Dod  didn't  'amswer.'  Is  'Dod  a'leep, 
muzzer?" 

"No,  my  boy,  but  what  was  it  that  Ted  wanted 
so  much?" 

"  Ted  wanted  towslips  for  muzzer,  but  Dod  won't 
amswer,"  he  repeated  piteously. 

A  shower  of  kisses  was  mother's  answer,  and 
gently  and  patiently  she  tried  to  make  him  under- 
stand the  seeming  silence  which  had  caused  his 
innocent  tears.  And,  as  was  Ted's  "way,"  he 
listened  and  believed.  But  "some  day,"  he  said 
to  his  mother,  "some  day,"  would  she  not  take  him 
to  "a  countly  where  towslips  did  grow?" 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN   THE   GARDEN. 

"  Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups, 
Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend  and  they  bow." 

SONGS  OP  SEVEN. 

DOWN  below  the  garden  of  Ted's  pretty  home 
flowed,  or  danced  rather,  with  a  constant  merry 
babble,  a  tiny  stream.  A  busy,  fussy  stream  it 
was,  on  its  way  to  the  beautiful  little  river  that, 
in  its  turn,  came  rushing  down  through  a  mountain- 
gorge  to  the  sea.  I  must  tell  you  about  this  moun- 
tain-gorge some  time,  or,  if  you  like,  we  shall  visit 
it  with  Ted  and  his  faithful  companion,  whom  you 
have  not  yet  heard  about  —  his  father's  great  big 
Scotch  collie  dog,  Cheviott. 

You  don't  know  what  a  dear  dog  he  was,  so 
brave,  but  so  gentle  and  considerate.  He  came 
of  a  brave  and  patient  race,  for  you  know  "  collies  " 
are  the  famous  Scotch  sheep-dogs,  who  to  their 
shepherd  masters  are  more  useful  than  any  two- 
legged  servant  could  be.  And  though  I  am  not 
sure  that  "  Chevie "  himself  had  ever  had  to  do 
with  "the  keeping  of  sheep,"  like  gentle  Abel  of 
old,  yet,  no  doubt,  as  a  baby  doggie  in  his  northern 
home,  he  must  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  it  — 

17 


18  A    CHKISTMAS   CHILD.  t 

no  doubt,  if  his  tongue  had  had  the  power  of  speak- 
ing, he  could  have  told  his  little  master  some 
strange  stories  of  adventures  and  narrow  escapes 
which  had  happened  to  members  of  his  family.  For 
up  in  the  Border  mountains  where  he  was  born, 
the  storms  sometimes  come  on  so  suddenly  that 
shepherd  and  flock  are  all  but  lost,  and  but  for  their 
faithful  collies,  might  never  find  their  way  home 
again.  Often,  too,  in  the  early  spring  time,  the 
poor  little  lambs  go  astray,  or  meet  with  some  acci- 
dent, such  as  being  caught  in  the  bushes  and 
being  unable  to  escape.  What,  then,  would  become 
of  them  but  for  their  four-footed  guardian,  who 
summons  aid  before  it  is  too  late,  and  guides  the 
gentle,  silly  lambkins  and  their  mothers  along  the 
right  paths?  I  think  Ted's  father  and  mother  did 
well  when  they  chose  for  their  boy  a  collie  like 
Cheviott  for  his  companion. 

Across  the  stream,  just  at  the  foot  of  the  garden 
path  which  sloped  down  from  the  house,  a  couple 
of  planks  were  placed  as  a  bridge.  A  narrow 
bridge,  and  not  a  very  firm  one,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, and  perhaps  for  that  very  reason  —  because 
there  was  something  a  little  risky  and  dangerous 
about  it  —  Ted,  true  boy  that  he  was,  was  par- 
ticularly fond  of  crossing  it.  He  liked  to  stand 
on  it  for  a  minute  or  two  on  the  way,  "jigging" 
up  and  down  to  feel  the  shaking  and  trembling 
of  the  planks,  but  that,  of  course,  was  only  a  kind 


IN   THE   GARDEN.  19 

of  playing  with  danger.  T  don't  think  he  would 
have  much  liked  a  sudden  tumble  into  the  mis- 
chievous little  brook's  cold  waters,  very  cold  it 
would  have  felt,  though  it  looked  so  browny  bright 
and  tempting.  And  many  a  bath  in  the  brook 
Ted  would  have  had,  had  Chevie  been  as  much 
carried  away  by  his  spirits  as  his  little  master. 
For  no  sooner  did  the  two  set  off  running  from 
the  top  of  the  sloping  garden  path,  than  Ted  would 
call  out,  "A  race,  Chevie,  a  race!  Who'll  be  at 
the  bridge  first?"  And  on  he  would  run  as  fast  as 
his  sturdy  wee  legs  could  carry  him,  Cheviott  bound- 
ing beside  him  with  a  great  show  of  also  doing 
his  best.  But  —  and  wasn't  this  clever  of  Chevie? 
—  just  a  little  way  on  this  side  of  the  bridge  he 
would  —  not  stop  short,  for  that  might  have  dis- 
appointed Ted  and  made  him  feel  as  if  they  weren't 
having  a  real  race,  but  go  gradually  more  slowly, 
as  if  he  felt  he  had  no  chance  of  gaining,  so  that 
little  Ted  always  reached  the  bridge  first,  and  stood 
shouting  with  glee  and  triumph.  The  first  time 
or  two  that  Ted's  mother  saw  this  little  performance 
she  had  been  frightened,  for  if  the  dog  had  gone 
on  at  full  speed,  or  even  only  at  luggage-train 
speed,  beside  the  boy,  he  could  not  have  avoided 
tumbling  him  into  the  brook.  But  for  anything  of 
this  kind  Cheviott  was  far  too  much  of  a  gentleman, 
and  after  watching  them  once  or  twice,  Ted's  mother 
felt  perfectly  satisfied  that  the  little  man  could  not 


20  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD., 

be  better  taken  care  of  than  by  his  four-footed 
friend. 

There  was  another  friend,  too,  who  could  very 
well  be  trusted  to  take  care  of  Ted,  for  though  he 
had,  of  course,  a  very  kind,  good  nurse  in  the  house, 
nurses  are  not  able  to  be  the  whole  day  long  in 
the  garden,  nor  are  they  always  very  fond  of  being 
much  there.  So,  even  though  Ted  was  still  quite 
a  little  boy,  it  was  very  nice  for  him  to  have  two 
such  -good  out-door  friends  as  Cheviott  and  David 
the  gardener,  the  other  one  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  of. 

It  was  a  beautiful  spring  day.  Ted  woke  up 
early,  and  thought  to  himself  how  nice  and  bright 
and  sunny  it  was  going  to  be  in  the  garden.  He 
was  rather  in  a  hurry  to  be  dressed,  for  there  were 
several  things  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  do,  and  the 
days,  in  summer  time  especially,  never  seemed  long 
enough  for  all  he  had  before  him.  Just  now  these 
summer  days  seemed  really  brimming  over  with 
nice  things,  for  his  big  cousin  Percy  —  at  least  he 
was  what  Ted  counted  a  "  big  "  cousin,  and  he  was  a 
good  many  years  older  than  Ted  —  was  with  him 
for  the  holidays,  and  though  Percy  had  some  les- 
sons to  do,  still  they  had  a  good  deal  of  time 
together. 

"Ted  wonders  if  Percy  is  'decked'  yet,"  said 
Ted  to  his  nurse.  "Decked"  was  the  word  he 
always  used  for  "dressed,"  and  he  was  often  made 


IN  THE   GARDEN.  21 

fun  of  for  using  it.  His  mind  was  very  full  of 
Percy  this  morning,  for  he  had  only  arrived  the 
evening  before,  and  besides  the  pleasure  of  having 
him  with  him,  which  was  always  a  pleasure,  there 
was  the  nice  newness  of  it, —  the  things  he  had 
to  show  Percy,  the  tricks  Chevie  had  learnt,  big 
dog  though  he  was,  the  letters  and  little  words 
Ted  had  himself  mastered  since  Percy  was  last  there. 

"I  don't  know  that  Master  Percy  will  be  ready 
quite  so  early  this  morning,"  said  nurse.  "He 
may  be  a  little  tired  with  travelling  yesterday." 

"Ted  doesn't  zinJc  Percy  will  be  tired,"  said  Ted. 
"  Percy  wants  to  see  the  garden.  Percy  is  so  big, 
isn't  he,  nurse?  Percy  can  throw  sticks  up  in  the 
sky  so  high.  Percy  throwed  one  up  in  the  sky 
up  to  heaven,  so  high  that  it  never  corned  down 
again." 

"Indeed,"  said  nurse;  "are  you  quite  sure  of 
that,  Master  Ted?  Perhaps  it  did  come  down 
again,  but  you  didn't  see  it." 

Nurse  was  a  sensible  person,  you  see.  She  did 
not  all  at  once  begin  saying  to  Ted  that  he  was 
talking  nonsense,  or  worse  still  that  he  was  telling 
stories.  For  very  little  children  often  "romance" 
in  a  sweet  innocent  way  which  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  story-telling  —  I  mean  untruth- 
telling,  for  it  is  better  not  to  call  untruths  "stories," 
is  it  not?  The  world  and  the  people  in  it,  and 
the  things  they  see  and  hear,  are  all  new  and 


22  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD.* 

strange  to  the  little  creatures  so  lately  started  on 
their  puzzling  journey.  What  wonder  that  real 
and  fancy  are  mixed  up  together  sometimes  —  that 
it  is  difficult  to  understand  that  the  pretty  blue- 
bells do  not  sometimes  tinkle  in  the  moonlight,  or 
that  there  are  no  longer  bears  in  the  woods  or 
fairies  hidden  among  the  grass  ?  Perhaps  it  would 
be  better  for  us  if  we  were  more  ready  to  believe 
even  such  passed-by  fancies,  than  to  be  so  quick 
as  we  sometimes  are  to  accuse  others  of  wishing  to 
deceive. 

Ted  looked  at  nurse  thoughtfully. 

"P'raps  it  did,"  he  said.  "P'raps  it  might  have 
corned  down  again  after  Ted  was  a'leep." 

"I  dare  say  it  caught  in  a  tree  or  something  of 
that  kind,"  said  nurse,  as  she  finished  brushing 
Ted's  soft  curls  and  lifted  him  oft'  the  chair  on 
which  he  had  been  standing,  just  as  Percy  put 
his  head  in  at  the  door  to  ask  if  Ted  might  have 
a  run  in  the  garden  with  him  before  breakfast. 

"They're  not  down  yet,"  said  Percy,  nodding  his 
bright  curly  head  in  the  direction  of  Ted's  father's 
and  mother's  room;  "they're  not  ready.  Nurse,  do 
let  Ted  come  out  with  me  for  a  bit  before  break- 
fast," and  Ted  trotted  off,  his  hand  in  Percy's,  in 
utmost  content. 

Was  there  ever  so  clever  and  kind  and  wonderful 
a  big  boy  as  Percy  before?  Was  there  ever  one 
who  knew  so  much  about  everything  —  cricket  and 


IN    THE   GARDEN.  23 

croquet  and  football ;  skating  and  fishing  and  climb- 
ing trees  —  things  on  earth  and  things  in  water  — 
what  was  there  he  didn't  know?  These  were  the 
thoughts  that  were  busy  in  Ted's  little  brain  as 
he  followed  kind  Percy  about  the  garden,  that 
bright  summer  morning,  chattering  incessantly,  and 
yet  ready  enough  to  be  silent  when  Percy  took  it 
into  his  head  to  relate  to  his  tiny  adorer  some  of 
his  school  experiences. 

"Ted  will  go  to  school  some  day,  Percy,"  he  said 
half  questioningly. 

"Of  course  you  will.  I  hope  you'll  come  to  my 
school  if  I've  not  left  by  then.  I  could  look  after 
you,  you  know,  and  see  that  they  didn't  bully 
you." 

"What's  'bully'?"  asked  Ted. 

"Oh,  teasing,  you  know.  Setting  you  down 
because  you're  a  little  chap,  and  all  that.  Knock- 
ing you  about  if  you  don't  look  sharp.  All  those 
kinds  of  things  that  big  fellows  do  to  small  ones." 

Ted  opened  his  eyes.  It  was  not  very  clear  to 
him  what  Percy  meant  —  it  was  a  new  idea,  and 
would  have  distressed  him  greatly  had  he  quite 
taken  it  in  that  big  boys  could  be  anything  but 
good  to  little  ones. 

"  Thoo  doesn't  knock  Ted  about,  and  thoo  is  big, 
Percy,"  he  said,  remonstratingly. 

"No,  of  course  I  don't,  but  that's  different. 
You're  like  my  brother,  you  know." 


24  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD, 

"And  bruvvers  couldn't  knock  theirselves  about," 
said  Ted  with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 

"N-no,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Percy.  Boy  as  he 
was,  he  felt  somehow  that  he  could  not  bear  to 
destroy  little  Ted's  beautiful  faith.  "But  never 
mind  about  that  just  now,"  he  added;  "let's  run 
down  the  bank  and  see  how  the  cabbages  and 
cauliflowers  are  getting  on.  They  were  just  put 
in  Avhen  I  was  here  last;"  and  for  some  time  both 
boys  were  intensely  interested  in  examining  the 
state  of  the  vegetable  beds. 

"Ted  likes  f'owers  best,"  said  the  child,  after  a 
few  moments'  silence.  "When  Ted  —  " 

"Why  don't  you  say  'I'  and  CI  like,'  Teddy?" 
said  Percy.  "You're  getting  such  a  big  boy  — 
four  years  old." 

"Ted  means  I,"  persisted  the  small  man.  "I 
sail  have  all  f'owers  in  Ted's  garden,  when  me 
is  big." 

Percy  was  obliged  to  leave  off  what  he  was 
about  —  hunting  for  the  slugs  and  caterpillars  among 
the  cabbages  —  in  order  that  he  might  stand  still 
and  laugh. 

"I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  get  the  prize  for  gram- 
mar at 'our  school,  Ted,"  he  said.  But  Ted  only 
laughed  too. 

"I  haven't  learnt  grammar,"  he  said  slowly  and 
distinctly.  "But  please,  Percy,  Ted  doesn't  like 
cabbages.  Come  and  see  the  f'owers.  There  was 


IN   THE   GARDEN.  25 

lots  of  c'ocodiles  at  that  side.  Ted  likes  zem  best 
of  all,  but  zem's  done  now." 

"Crocodiles,"  said  Percy.  "What  can  crocodiles 
be?" 

"Little  f'owers  with  pointy  leaves,"  said  Ted. 
"P'raps  it  isn't  c'ocodiles  but  somesing  like  coc 
—  coco  —  " 

"Crocuses  perhaps,"  said  Percy,  as  they  made 
their  way  up  to  the  house.  "Yes,  they're  very 
pretty,  but  they're  soon  done." 

"When  I'm  big  I'll  have  a  garden  where  they'll 
never  be  done,"  said  Ted.  "I'll  have  c'ocodiles 
and  towslips  for  muzzer  and  —  and  — 

"Come  in  to  breakfast,  my  man,"  called  out  his 
father  from  the  dining-room.  "What  have  you 
been  about  this  morning?" 

"We'se  been  in  the  garden,"  said  Ted,  "and 
Percy's  been  'samining  the  cabbages.  He's  caught 
slugs  upon  slugs,  worms  upon  worms,  earwigs  upon 
earwigs." 

"My  dear  little  boy,"  said  Ted's  father,  though 
he  couldn't  help  laughing,  "you  mustn't  learn  to 
exaggerate." 

"What's  'saggerate?"  began  Ted,  but  looking 
round  another  idea  caught  him.  "  Where's  muz- 
zer?" he  said  suddenly. 

"Mother  is  rather  tired  this  morning,"  said  his 
father.  "Eat  your  breakfast,  dear,"  and  then  he 
turned  to  talk  to  Percy  and  ask  him  questions  as 
to  how  he  was  getting  on  at  school. 


26  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

For  a  minute  or  two  neither  of  them  noticed  Ted. 
He  sat  quietly  at  his  place,  his  bowl  of  bread  and 
milk  before  him,  but  he  made  no  attempt  to  eat  it. 
Then  Percy  happened  to  see  him. 

"Aren't  you  hungry,  Ted?"  he  said. 

Ted  looked  up  with  his  two  blue  eyes  full  of 
tears. 

"Ses,"  he  said,  "Ted's  hungry.  But  if  muzzer 
doesn't  come  down  Ted  can't  eat.  Ted  won't  eat 
nothing  all  day,  and  he'll  die." 

"Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  said  his  father 
quietly,  for  he  did  not  want  Ted  to  see  that  it 
was  difficult  not  to  smile  at  his  funny  way  of  speak- 
ing, "for  see  here  is  mother  coming." 

Ted  danced  off  his  seat  with  pleasure. 

"It's  dedful  when  thoo's  not  here,"  he  said  feel- 
ingly, and  now  the  bread  and  milk  was  quickly 
despatched.  "When  I'm  big,"  he  continued,  in 
the  intervals  of  the  spoonfuls,  "I'll  have  a  house 
as  big  —  as  big  as  a  mountain,"  his  eyes  glancing 
out  of  the  window,  "and  all  the  little  boys  in  the 
world  shall  live  there  with  all  their  favers  and 
muzzers,  and  Percies,  and  everybodies,  and  nobody 
shall  never  go  away,  not  to  school  or  bidness,  or 
nothing,  so  that  they'll  all  be  togever  always." 

Ted  looked  round  for  approval,  and  then  took 
another  spoonful. 

"What  a  nice  place  you'll  make  of  the  world, 
my  boy,  when  you're  big,"  said  his  father. 


IN   THE   GARDEN.  27 

"Ses,"  said  Ted  with  satisfaction. 

"But  as  that  time  hasn't  come  yet,  I'm  afraid 
I  must  go  to  my  'bidness,'"  his  father  went  on. 
For  he  had  to  go  several  times  a  week  a  good  way 
into  the  country,  to  see  that  his  men  were  all  doing 
their  work  properly.  "And  Percy  must  go  with 
me  to-day,"  he  went  on,  "for  he  needs  some  new 

clothes,  and  I  shall  be  driving  through  A ," 

which  was  the  nearest  town  to  which  they  lived. 

Percy's  face  looked  very  pleased,  but  Ted's  grew 
rather  sad. 

"Never  mind,  Teddy,"  whispered  Percy.  "We'll 
have  lots  of  days.  You  must  have  a  good  game 
with  Chevie  to  keep  up  your  spirits." 

"And  David  is  going  to  cut  the  grass  to-day," 
said  his  father,  "so  you  will  have  plenty  of 
fun." 

"But  Ted  must  be  careful,"  said  his  mother; 
"don't  touch  David's  sharp  tools,  Ted.  I  was 
quite  frightened  the  other  day,"  she  added;  "Ted 
was  trying  to  open  and  shut  those  great  big  shears 
for  clipping  the  borders." 

"Zem  was  sticked  fast,"  said  Ted.  "Zem  opens 
kite  easy  sometimes." 

"Well,  don't  you  touch  them  anyway,"  said  his 
mother,  laughing.  But  though  Ted  said  "No,"  I 
don't  feel  sure  that  he  really  heard  what  his  mother 
was  saying.  His  wits  were  already  off,  I  don't 
know  where  to  —  running  after  Cheviott  perhaps, 


28  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

or  farther  away  still,  up  among  the  little  clouds 
that  were  scudding  across  the  blue  sky  that  he 
caught  sight  of  out  of  the  window. 

And  then  his  father  and  Percy  set  off,  and  his 
mother  went  away  about  her  housekeeping,  sending 
Ted  up  to  the  nursery,  and  telling  him  that  he 
might  ask  nurse  to  put  his  big  blouse  on,  so  that 
he  might  play  about  the  garden  without  risk  of 
soiling  his  clothes. 

Ted  felt,  for  him,  a  very  little  sad  as  he  trotted 
out  into  the  garden.  He  had  hoped  for  such  a  nice 
merry  day  with  Percy.  But  low  spirits  never 
troubled  him  long.  Off  he  set  with  Cheviott  for 
the  race  down  to  the  little  bridge,  always  the  first 
bit  of  Ted's  programme,  and  careful  Chevie  as  usual 
pulled  up  in  plenty  of  time  to  avoid  any  risk  of 
toppling  his  master  into  the  brook.  Arrived  on 
the  bridge,  Ted  stood  still  and  "jigged"  a  little 
as  usual.  Then  he  peered  down  at  the  shiny  water 
with  the  bright  brown  pebbles  sparkling  up  through 
it,  and  wondered  what  it  would  feel  like  to  be  a 
little  fish. 

"Little  fisses,"  he  said  to  himself,  "always  has 
each  other  to  play  with.  They  don't  go  to  school, 
and  they  hasn't  no  bidness,  nor  no  cooks  that  they 
must  be  such  a  long  time  ordering  the  dinners 
with,  nor  —  nor  beds  to  make  and  stockings  to 
mend.  I  wish  nurse  would  'turn  out  this  morning. 
Ted  doesn't  like  being  all  alone.  Ted  would  like 


IN  THE   GARDEN.  29 

somebody    littler    to    play    with,    'cos    then    they 
wouldn't  go  to  school   or   out  d'ives  with   papa." 

But  just  as  he  was  thinking  this,  he  caught 
sight  of  some  one  coming  across  the  garden,  and 
his  ideas  took  another  turn  at  once. 

"David,  old  David,"  he  cried,  "is  thoo  going  to 
cut  the  grass?  Do  let  me  come  and  help  thoo, 
David." 

And  he  ran  back  across  the  bridge  again  and 
made  his  way  to  David  as  fast  as  he  could. 

"Good-morning,  Master  Ted,"  said  the  gardener. 
"  It  is  beautiful  day,  Master  Ted,  to  be  sure.  Yes 
indeed." 

"Ses,"  agreed  Ted.  "Good-morning,  old  David. 
I'm  going  to  stay  out  in  the  garden  a  long  time, 
a  tevible  long  time,  'cos  it's  such  a  sprendid  lovely 
day.  What  is  thoo  going  to  do,  David?  Can't 
Ted  help  thoo?" 

"I  am  going  to  cut  the  grass,  Master  Ted,  but 
I  not  be  very  long  —  no ;  for  it  is  only  the  middle 
that's  be  cut.  All  the  rest  stand  for  hay,  to  be 
sure.  Ay,  indeed." 

"And  when  will  the  hay  be  cuttened?"  inquired 
Ted. 

"That's  be  as  Master  order,  and  not  as  Master 
can  choose  neither  —  no,"  said  David.  "He  not 
able  to  make  for  the  sun  to  shine;  no,  indeed;  nor 
the  rain  neither, —  no." 

" Dod    sends    rain    and    sun,"    said    Ted,    rever- 


30  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

ently,  but  yet   looking   at    David   with   a   sort   of 
curiosity. 

"Well,  indeed  you  are  right,  Master  Ted.  Yes, 
yes.  But  I  must  get  on  with  my  work.  God 
gives  us  work  to  do,  too;  ay,  indeed;  and  them 
as  not  work  never  expect  to  eat,  no,  never;  they 
not  care  for  their  victual  anyhow  if  they  not  work 
for  it.  No." 

Ted  looked  rather  puzzled.  "Ted  eats,"  he  said, 
—  "not  victuals  —  Ted  doesn't  know  that  meat  — 
but  bread  and  butter,  and  tea,  and  potatoes,  and 
rice  pudding,  and  meat,  and  sometimes  'tawberry 
jam  and  apple  pie  and  —  and  —  lots  of  things.  And 
Ted  likes  zem  very  much,  but  him  doesn't  work." 

"I  not  know  for  that,  Master  Ted,"  said  David, 
"is  it  all  kinds  of  work;  ay,  indeed;  and  I  see 
you  very  near  always  busy  —  dear  me,  yes ;  working 
very  good,  Master  Ted  —  ay." 

"I  like  to  be  busy.  I  wish  thoo'd  let  me  help 
thoo  to  cut  the  grass,"  said  Ted,  eyeing  David 
wistfully,  as  he  started  his  big  scythe,  for  the  old 
gardener  knew  nothing  of  mowing  machines,  and 
would  most  likely  have  looked  upon  them  with 
great  contempt.  But  he  stopped  short  a  moment 
to  look  down  at  wee  Ted,  staring  up  at  him  and 
wishing  to  be  in  his  place. 

"No,  indeed,  Master  Ted  bach!'''  he  said;  "you 
soon  have  your  cliver  little  legs  and  arms  cut  to 
pieces,  if  you  use  with  my  scythe,  Master  Ted  — 


1  I  WISH  THOO'D  LET  ME  HELP  THOO  TO  CUT  THE  GRASS."  — p.  30. 


IN   THE   GAKDEN.  31 

ay,  indeed,  d'rectly.  It  look  easy,  to  be  sure,  but 
it  not  so  easy  even  for  a  cliver  man  like  you, 
Master  Ted  —  no,  indeed.  But  I  tell  you  what 
you  shall  do.  You  shall  help  to  make  the  grass 
to  a  heaps,  and  then  I  put  it  in  a  barrow  and  wheel 
it  off.  Ay,  indeed;  that  be  the  best." 

This  proposal  was  very  much  to  Ted's  taste. 
Chevie  and  he,  at  a  safe  distance  from  David's 
scythe,  thought  it  great  fun  to  toss  about  the  soft 
fine  grass  and  imagine  they  were  helping  David 
tremendously.  And  after  a  while,  when  Chevie 
began  to  think  he  had  had  enough  of  it,  and  with 
a  sort  of  condescending  growl  by  way  of  explana- 
tion, stretched  himself  out  in  the  sunshine  for  a 
little  forenoon  sleep,  David  left  off  cutting,  and, 
with  Ted's  help  of  course,  filled  the  barrow  and 
wheeled  it  off  to  the  corner  where  the  grass  was 
to  lie  to  be  out  of  the  way.  It  was  beginning 
to  be  rather  hot,  though  still  quite  early,  and  Ted's 
face  grew  somewhat  red  with  his  exertions  as  he 
ran  beside  David. 

"You  better  ride  now;  jump  in,  Master  Ted," 
said  the  gardener,  when  his  barrow  was  empty. 
So  he  lifted  him  in  and  wheeled  him  back  to  the 
lawn,  which  was  quite  after  Ted's  own  heart. 

"  Isn't  thoo  going  to  cut  with  thoo's  big  scissors  ?  " 
said  Ted  after  a  while. 

"It  is  want  oiling,"  said  David,  "and  I  forget 
to  do  them.  I  shall  leave  the  borders  till  after 


32  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

dinner, — ay,  sure,"  and  he  was  going  on  with  his 
scything  when  suddenly  a  voice  was  heard  from  the 
house  calling  him. 

"David,  David,  you're  wanted,"  said  the  voice, 
and  then  the  cook  made  her  appearance  at  the  side 
of  the  house.  "There's  a  note  to  take  to ." 

They  could  not  hear  to  where,  but  David  had 
to  go.  He  glanced  round  him,  and,  afraid  of  Ted's 
experiments,  shouldered  his  scythe  and  walked  off 
with  it  for  fear  of  accidents. 

"Are  you  going  in,  Master  Ted?"  he  asked. 

"Nurse  is  going  to  call  me  when  she's  ready," 
said  Ted  composedly,  and  knowing  that  the  little 
fellow  often  played  about  by  himself  for  a  while, 
good  David  left  him  without  any  more  anxiety. 
He  had  got  his  scythe  safe,  he  never  thought  of 
the  big  pair  of  shears  he  had  left  lying  in  the  grass ! 

Now  these  gigantic  "scissors"  as  he  called  them 
had  always  had  a  wonderful  attraction  for  Ted.  He 
used  to  think  how  funny  they  would  look  beside 
the  very  tiny  fine  pair  his  mother  worked  with  —  the 
pretty  scissors  that  lay  in  her  little  case  lined  with 
velvet  and  satin.  Ted  had  not,  in  those  days,  heard 
of  Gulliver  and  his  strange  adventures,  but  if  he 
had,  one  might  have  imagined  that  to  his  fancy 
the  two  pairs  of  scissors  were  like  a  Brobdignag 
and  a  Lilliputian.  And  no  sooner  had  David  dis- 
appeared than  unfortunately  the  great  scissors  caught 
his  eyes. 


IN   THE   GARDEN.  33 

"Zem's  still  sticked  fast,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"David  says  zem  needs  oil.  Wiss  I  had  some  oil. 
P'raps  the  fissy  oil  to  make  Ted  grow  big  would 
do.  But  the  scissors  is  big  enough.  Ted  wonders 
if  the  fissy  oil  would  make  zem  bigger.  Zem 
couldn't  be  much  bigger." 

Ted  laughed  a  little  to  himself  at  the  funny 
fancy.  Then  he  sat  and  stared  at  the  scissors. 
What  did  they  remind  him  of?  Ah  yes,  they  were 
like  the  shears  of  "the  great,  long,  red-legged 
scissor  man,"  in  the  wonderful  story  of  "Conrad 
Suck-a-thumb,"  in  his  German  picture-book.  Al- 
most, as  he  gazed  at  them,  it  seemed  to  Ted  that 
the  figure  of  the  scissors  man  would  suddenly  dart 
out  from  among  the  bushes  and  seize  his  property. 

"But  him  wouldn't  cut  Ted's  fumbs,"  thought 
the  little  man  to  himself,  "  'cos  Ted  never  sucks 
zem.  What  a  pity  the  scissors  is  sticked  fast! 
Poor  David  can't  cut  with  zem.  P'raps  Ted  could 
oilen  zern  for  poor  David!  Ted  will  go  and  get 
some  fissy  oil." 

No  sooner  thought  than  done.  Up  jumped  Ted, 
and  was  starting  off  to  the  house  when  a  groAvl 
from  Cheviott  made  him  stop.  The  dog  had  just 
awakened,  and  seeing  his  little  master  setting  off 
somewhere  thought  it  his  business  to  inquire  where 
to  and,  why.  He  lifted  his  head  and  gave  it  a  sort 
of  sleepy  shake,  then  growled  again,  but  gently  of 
course. 


34  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD, 

"What  did  thoo  say,  Chevie?"  said  Ted.  "Did 
thoo  want  to  know  where  I  was  going  ?  Stay  here, 
Chevie.  Ted  will  be  back  in  a  minute  —  him's 
on'y  going  to  get  some  fissy  oil  to  oilen  poor 
David's  scissors." 

And  off  he  set,  though  a  third  growl  from 
Cheviott  followed  him  as  he  ran. 

"  What  does  Chevie  mean  ?  "  thought  Ted.  "  P'raps 
him's  thinking  muzzer  said  Ted  mustn't  touch  zem 
big  scissors.  But  muzzer  on'y  meant  Ted  wasn't 
to  cutten  with  zem.  Muzzer  would  like  Ted  to 
help  poor  David,"  and,  his  conscience  quite  at  rest, 
he  trotted  on  contentedly. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WISHES  AND  FEARS. 

Children.    "  Here  are  the  nails,  and  may  we  help  ? 

Jessie.    You  shall  if  I  should  want  help. 
Children.    Will  you  want  it  then  ? 

Please  want  it  —  we  like  helping." 

THERE  was  no  one  in  the  nursery,  fortunately 
for  Ted's  plans.  ZTkfortunately  rather,  we  should 
perhaps  say,  for  if  nurse  had  been  there,  she  would 
have  asked  for  what  he  wanted  the  little  bottle 
which  had  held  the  cod-liver  oil,  that  he  had  lately 
left  off  taking,  but  of  which  a  few  drops  still 
remained. 

Ted  climbed  on  to  a  chair  and  reached  the  shelf 
where  it  stood,  and  in  two  minutes  he  was  off  again, 
bottle  in  hand,  in  triumph.  He  found  Cheviott 
lying  still,  where  he  had  left  him;  he  looked  up 
and  yawned  as  Ted  appeared,  and  then  growled 
with  an  air  of  satisfaction.  It  was  sometimes  a 
little  difficult  for  Che  vie  to  decide  exactly  how 
much  care  he  was  to  take  of  Ted.  After  all,  a 
little  two-legged  boy  that  could  talk  was  not  quite 
the  same  as  a  lamb,  or  even  a  sheep.  He  could  not 
run  round  him  barking,  to  prevent  his  trotting  where 
he  wished  —  there  were  plainly  some  things  Ted 

35 


3b  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD.- 

had  to  do  with  and  understood  which  Che  vie 's  dog- 
experience  did  not  reach  to. 

So  Cheviott  lay  there  and  blinked  his  honest 
eyes  in  the  sunshine,  and  stared  at  Ted  and  won- 
dered what  he  was  after  now!  For  Ted  was  in  a 
very  tip-top  state  of  delight!  He  sat  down  cross- 
legged  on  the  grass,  drew  the  delicious  big  shears 
to  him  —  they  were  heavy  for  him  even  to  pull  — 
and  uncorking  the  bottle  of  "fissy"  oil,  began 
operations. 

"Zem  is  sticked  fast,  to  be  soore,"  he  said  to 
himself,  adopting  David's  favourite  expression,  as 
he  tugged  and  tugged  in  vain.  "If  thoo  could 
hold  one  side  and  Ted  the  other,  they  would  soon 
come  loosened,"  he  observed  to  Cheviott.  But 
Cheviott  only  growled  faintly  and  blinked  at  his 
master  sleepily,  and  after  a  good  deal  more  tugging 
Ted  did  manage  to  open  the  shears,  which  indeed 
at  last  flew  apart  so  sharply  that  the  boy  toppled 
over  with  the  shock,  and  rolled  for  a  moment  or 
two  on  the  grass,  though  happily  not  on  the  shears, 
before  he  recovered  his  balance. 

Laughing  merrily,  he  pulled  himself  up  again. 
Luckily  the  bottle  had  not  been  overturned.  Ted 
poured  a  drop  or  two  carefully  on  to  his  fingers, 
quite  regardless  of  the  fishy  smell,  and  proceeded 
to  anoint  the  scissors.  This  he  repeated  several 
times,,  polishing  them  all  over  till  they  shone,  but 
not  understanding  that  the  place  where  the  oil  was 


WISHES   AND   FEARS.  37 

needed  was  the  hinge,  he  directed  the  best  of  his 
attention  to  the  general  shininess. 

Then  he  sat  and  looked  at  them  admiringly. 

"Won't  David  be  p'eased?"  he  said.  "Zem's 
oilened  all  over  now.  Ted  must  see  if  they  don't 
sticken  fast  now." 

With  nearly  as  much  difficulty  as  he  had  had  to 
open  them,  Ted  now  managed  to  shut  them. 

"Zem's  better,"  thought  the  busy  little  man, 
"but  Ted  must  see  how  they  cut." 

He  laid  them  flat  on  the  grass,  at  a  place  where 
the  blades  had  not  been  completely  sheared  by  the 
scythe.  Tug  number  one — the  oil  had  really  done 
some  good,  they  opened  more  easily  —  tug  number 
two,  behold  them  gaping  —  tug  number  three,  they 
bite  the  grass,  and  Ted  is  just  going  to  shout  in 
triumph  when  a  quick  shock  of  pain  stabs  through 
him.  He  had  been  kneeling  almost  on  the  shears, 
and  their  cruel  jaws  had  snipped,  with  the  grass, 
the  tender  fleshy  part  of  his  poor  little  leg ! 

It  was  not  the  pain  that  frightened  him  so  much 
as  the  feeling  held  fast  by  the  now  dreadful  scissors. 

"David,  David,"  he  cried,  "oh,  please  come. 
Nurse,  please  come.  Ted  has  cuttened  hisself." 

His  little  voice  sounded  clear  and  shrill  in  the 
summer  quiet  of  the  peaceful  garden,  and  nurse, 
who  had  been  hastening  to  come  out  to  him,  heard 
it  from  the  open  window.  David  too  was  on  his 
way  back,  and  poor  Ted  was  soon  released.  But  it 


38  A   CHEISTMAS    CHILD. 

was  a  bad  cut — he  had  to  be  carried  into  the  house 
to  have  it  bathed  and  sponged  and  tenderly  bound 
up  by  mother's  fingers.  He  left  off  crying  when 
he  saw  how  sorry  mother  looked. 

"Ted  is  so  sorry  to  t'ouble  thoo,"  he  said. 

"And  mother  is  sorry  for  Ted,"  she  replied. 
"But,  my  dear  little  boy,"  she  went  on,  when  the 
poor  leg  was  comfortable  and  its  owner  forget- 
ting its  pain  on  mother's  knee,  "don't  you  remem- 
ber that  mother  told  you  not  to  touch  David's 
tools?" 

"Oh  ses,"  he  replied.  "Ted  wouldn't  touch  zem 
for  hisself,  but  it  was  to  help  David,"  and  the  inno- 
cent confidence  with  which  he  looked  up  in  her  face 
went  to  his  mother's  heart. 

"  But  still,  dear  Ted,  you  must  try  to  understand 
that  what  mother  says,  you  must  do  exactly.  Mother 
likes  you  to  be  kind  and  helping  to  people,  but  still 
mother  knows  better  than  you,  and  that  is  why, 
when  she  tells  you  things,  you  must  remember  to 
do  what  she  says." 

Ted  looked  grave  and  a  little  puzzled,  and  seeing 
this  his  mother  thought  it  best  to  say  no  more 
just  then.  The  lesson  of  obedience  was  one  that 
Ted  found  rather  puzzling,  you  see,  but  what  his 
mother  had  said  had  made  a  mark  in  his  mind.  He 
thought  about  it  often,  and  as  he  grew  bigger  other 
things  happened,  as  you  will  hear,  to  make  him 
think  of  it  still  more. 


WISHES    AND   FEARS.  39 

It  was  rather  a  trial  to  Ted  not  to  be  able  to  run 
about  as  usual  that  afternoon,  for  had  he  done  so, 
the  cut  might  have  begun  to  bleed  again,  so  he 
had  to  sit  still  in  the  nursery,  looking  out  at  the 
window  and  hoping  and  hoping  that  Percy  would 
soon  come  back.  Once  David  and  his  barrow  passed 
underneath,  and  the  gardener  called  up  to  know  if 
Master  Ted's  leg  was  better.  Ted  shook  his  head 
rather  dolefully. 

"Him's  better,"  he  said,  "but  Ted  can't  run 
about.  Ted's  so  sad,  David.  Muzzer's  got  letters 
to  write  and  Percy's  out." 

A  kind  thought  struck  David.  He  went  round 
to  the  drawing-room  window  and  tapped  at  it  gently. 
Ted's  mother  was  writing  there.  Might  he  wheel 
Master  Ted  in  his  barrow  to  the  part  of  the  garden 
where  he  was  working?  —  he  would  take  good  care 
of  him —  "the  little  gentleman  never  cut  himself 
if  I  with  him  —  no,  indeed;  I  make  him  safe 
enough." 

And  Ted's  mother  consented  gladly.  So  in  a 
few  minutes  he  was  comfortably  installed  on  a  nice 
heap  of  dry  grass,  with  Cheviott  close  beside  him 
and  David  near  at  hand. 

"  You  never  touch  my  tools  again,  Master  Ted, 
for  a  bit,  no,  to  be  sure,  do  you  now?"  said 
David. 

"No,"  said  Ted.  "Muzzer  says  I  mustn't.  But 
wasn't  the  big  scissors  nicely  oilened,  David?" 


40  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILI?. 

"Oh,  fust  rate  —  ay,"  said  David.  "Though  I 
not  say  it  is  a  diver  smell  —  no.  I  not  like  the 
smell,  Master  Ted." 

"Never  mind,"  replied  Ted  reassuringly.  "Ted 
will  ask  muzzer  for  some  cock-alone  for  thoo.  Thoo 
can  put  some  on  the  scissors." 

"What's  that,  Master  Ted?"  inquired  David, 
who  was  not  at  all  above  getting  information  out 
of  his  little  master. 

"Cock-alone,"  repeated  Ted.  "Oh,  it's  somesing 
that  smells  very  nice.  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 
I  thing  it  must  be  skeesed  out  of  f'owers.  I'll 
run  and  get  thoo  some  now,  David,  this  minute," 
and  he  was  on  the  point  of  clambering  to  his  feet 
when  the  stiff  feeling  of  his  bandaged  leg  stopped 
him.  "Oh,  I  forgot,"  he  exclaimed  regretfully. 

"  Yes  indeed,  Master  Ted.  You  not  walk  a  great 
deal  to-day,  to  be  sure  —  no,  indeed  —  for  a  bit;  ay." 

Ted  lay  still  for  a  minute  or  two.  He  was  gaz- 
ing up  at  the  sky,  which  that  afternoon  was  very 
pure  and  beautiful. 

"Who  paints  the  sky,  David?"  he  said  suddenly. 

"Well  indeed,  Master  Ted,  I  not  think  you  ask 
me  such  a  foolis'  question,  Master  Ted  bach!"  said 
David.  "Who's  make  a  sky  and  a  sea  and  every- 
thing so?" 

"Dod,"  said  Ted.  "Oh,  I  know  that.  But  I 
thoughtened  p'raps  Dod  put  somebody  up  there  to 
paint  it.  It  was  so  pitty  last  night,  David  —  all 


WISHES   AND   FEARS.  41 

tolours  —  Ted  tan't  say  zem  all.  Why  isn't  there 
many  tolours  now,  David?" 

"I  not  know  for  sure,"  said  David,  stopping  a 
moment  in  his  work  and  looking  up  at  the  sky. 

"Ted  thought,"  continued  the  little  fellow  slowly, 
"Ted  thought  p'raps  Dod's  paints  was  getting  done. 
Could  that  be  why?" 

David  was  rather  matter-of-fact,  and  I  don't  know 
that  that  made  him  any  the  worse  a  companion  for 
Ted,  whose  brain  was  already  quite  full  enough  of 
fancies.  So  he  did  not  smile  at  Ted's  idea,  but 
answered  quite  gravely, 

"No  indeed,  Master  Ted,  I  not  think  that  untall." 

"If  on'y  Ted  could  fly,"  the  child  continued  in 
a  minute  or  two,  as  just  then  a  flock  of  birds  made 
their  graceful  way  between  his  gazing  eyes  and 
the  clear  blue  vault  above.  "How  pittily  birds 
flies,  don't  they,  David?  If  Ted  could  fly  he'd 
soon  find  out  all  about  the  sky  and  everysing. 
And  it  wouldn't  matter  then  that  him  had  hurt 
his  leg.  Couldn't  Ted  learn  to  fly,  David?" 

Ted  was  soaring  too  far  above  poor  David's  head 
already  for  him  to  know  what  to  answer.  What 
could  he  say  but  "No  indeed,  Master  Ted,"  again? 
He  had  never  heard  tell  of  any  one  that  could  fly 
except  the  angels.  For  David  was  fond  of  going 
to  church,  or  chapel  rather,  and  though  he  could 
not  read  Ted's  Bible,  he  could  read  his  own  very 
well. 


42  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

"Angels,"  said  Ted.  The  word  started  his  busy 
fancy  off  in  a  fresh  direction.  He  lay  looking  up 
still,  watching  now  the  lovely  little  feathery  clouds 
that  began  to  rise  as  the  sun  declined,  and  fancy- 
ing they  were  angels  with  wings  softly  floating 
hither  and  thither  in  the  balmy  air.  He  watched 
one  little  group,  which  seemed  to  him  like  three 
angels  with  their  arms  twined  together,  so  long, 
that  at  last  his  eyes  grew  rather  tired  of  watching 
and  their  little  white  blinds  closed  over  them 
softly.  Little  Ted  had  fallen  asleep. 

"So,  so;  dear  me,  he  tired,"  said  old  David,  as, 
surprised  at  the  unusual  silence,  he  turned  to  see 
what  Ted  was  about.  "Bless  him,  he  tired  very 
bad  with  his  cliver  talk  and  the  pain;  ay  —  but, 
indeed,  he  not  one  to  make  fuss  —  no.  He  a  brave 
little  gentleman,  Master  Ted  —  ay,  indeed,"  and  the 
kind  old  man  lifted  the  boy's  head  so  that  he 
should  lie  more  comfortably,  and  turned  his  wheel- 
barrow up  on  one  side  to  shade  him  from  the  sun. 

Ted  smiled  in  his  sleep  as  David  looked  at  him. 
Shall  I  tell  you  what  made  him  smile?  In  his 
sleep  he  had  got  his  wish.  He  dreamt  that  he 
was  flying.  This  was  the  dream  that  came  to  him. 

He  fancied  he  was  running  down  the  garden 
path  with  Chevie,  when  all  at  once  Chevie  seemed 
to  disappear,  and  where  he  had  been  there  stood 
a  pretty  snow-white  lamb.  With  an  eager  cry 
Ted  darted  forward  to  catch  it,  and  laid  his  hand 


WISHES   AND   FEAKS.  43 

on  its  soft  woolly  coat,  when  —  it  was  no  lamb  but 
a  little  cloud  lie  was  trying  to  grasp.  And  won- 
derful to  say,  the  little  cloud  seemed  to  float  towards 
him  and  settle  itself  on  his  shoulders,  and  then  all 
of  himself  Ted  seemed  to  find  out  that  it  had  turned 
into  wings ! 

"  Ted  can  fly,  Ted  can  fly!  "  he  cried  with  delight, 
or  thought  he  cried.  In  reality  it  was  just  then 
that  David  lifted  his  head,  and  feeling  himself 
moving,  Ted  fancied  it  was  the  wings  lifting  him 
upward,  and  gave  the  pleased  smile  which  David 
noticed.  Fly!  I  should  think  so.  He  mounted 
and  mounted,  higher  and  higher,  the  white  wings 
waving  him  upwards  in  the  most  wonderful  way, 
till  at  last  he  found  himself  right  up  in  the  blue 
sky  where  he  had  so  wished  to  be.  And  ever  so 
many  —  lots  and  lots  of  other  little  white  things 
were  floating  or  flying  about,  and,  looking  closely 
at  them,  Ted  saw  that  they  were  not  little  clouds 
as  they  seemed  at  first,  but  wings  —  all  pairs  of 
beautiful  white  wings,  and  dear  little  faces  were 
peeping  out  from  between  them.  They  were  all 
little  children  like  himself. 

"  Come  and  play,  Ted,  come  and  play.  Ted,  Ted, 
TED!"  they  cried  so  loud,  that  Ted  opened  his 
eyes  —  his  real  waking  eyes,  not  his  dream  ones  — 
sharply,  and  there  he  was,  lying  on  the  soft  grass 
heap,  not  up  in  the  sky  among  the  cloud-children 
at  all ! 


44  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

At  first  he  was  rather  disappointed.  But  as  he 
was  thinking  to  himself  whether  it  was  worth  while 
to  try  to  go  to  sleep  again  and  go  on  with  his 
dream,  he  heard  himself  called  as  before,  "Ted, 
Ted,  TED." 

And  looking  up  he  forgot  all  about  everything 
else  when  he  saw,  running  down  the  sloping  banks 
as  fast  as  his  legs  would  carry  him,  Percy,  his 
dear  Percy! 

Ted  jumped  up  —  even  his  wounded  leg  couldn't 
keep  him  still  now. 

"Was  it  thoo  calling  me,  Percy?"  he  said.  "I 
was  d'eaming,  do  thoo  know  —  such  a  funny  d'eam? 
But  I'm  so  glad  thoo's  come  back,  Percy.  Oh, 
Ted  is  so  glad." 

Then  all  the  day's  adventures  had  to  be  related 
—  the  accident  with  the  scissors  and  the  drive  in 
the  wheelbarrow,  and  the  funny  dream.  And  in 
his  turn  Percy  had  to  tell  of  all  he  had  seen  and 
done  and  heard  —  the  shops  he  had  been  at  in  the 
little  town,  and  what  he  had  had  for  luncheon 
and  —  and  —  the  numberless  trifles  that  make  up 
the  interest  of  a  child's  day. 

"Does  thoo  think  there's  any  shop  where  we 
could  get  wings,  Percy?"  asked  Ted.  He  had  the 
vaguest  ideas  as  to  what  "shops"  were,  but  Percy 
had  been  telling  him  of  the  beautiful  little  boats 
he  had  seen  at  a  toy-shop  in  the  market-place, 
"boats  with  white  sails  and  all  rigged  just  like 


WISHES   AND   FEARS.  45 

real  ones ; "  and  if  boats  with  white  sails  were  to 
be  got,  why  not  white  wings  ? 

"Wings!"  exclaimed  Percy.  "What  sort  of 
wings  do  you  mean,  Teddy?" 

"Wings  for  little  boys,"  Ted  explained.  "Like 
what  I  was  d'eaming  about.  It  would  be  so  nice 
to  fly,  Percy." 

"Beautiful,  wouldn't  it?"  agreed  Percy.  "But 
nobody  can  fly,  Ted.  Nobody  could  make  wings  that 
would  be  any  use  for  people.  People  can't  fly." 

"But  little  boys,  Percy,"  persisted  Ted.  "Little 
boys  isn't  so  very  much  bigger  than  birds.  Oh, 
you  don't  know  how  lovely  it  feels  to  fly.  Percy, 
do  let  us  try  to  make  some  wings." 

But  Percy's  greater  experience  was  less  hopeful. 

"I'm  afraid  it  would  be  no  use,"  he  said.  "Peo- 
ple have  often  tried.  I've  heard  stories  of  it. 
They  only  tumbled  down." 

"  Did  they  hurt  themselves  ?  "  asked  Ted. 

"I  expect  so,"  Percy  replied. 

Just  then  David,  who  was  passing  by,  stopped 
to  tell  the  boys  that  some  one  was  calling  them  in 
from  the  house. 

"Is  it  your  papa,  Master  Ted;  yes,  I  think," 
he  said. 

Ted's  leg  was  feeling  less  stiff  and  painful  now. 
He  could  walk  almost  as  well  as  usual.  When 
they  got  to  the  house-door  his  father  was  waiting 
for  him.  He  had  heard  of  Ted's  misfortune,  and 


46  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

there  was  rather  a  comical  smile  on  his  face  as  he 
stooped  to  kiss  his  little  boy. 

"I  want  you  to  come  in  to  see  Mr.  Brand,"  he 
said.  "He  says  he  hasn't  seen  you  for  a  long 
time,  little  Ted." 

Ted  raised  his  blue  eyes  to  his  father's  face  with 
a  rather  puzzled  expression. 

"Whom's  Mr.  Brand?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  don't  you  remember  him,  Teddy?"  said 
Percy.  "  That  great  big  gentleman  —  so  awfully 
tall." 

Ted  did  not  reply,  but  he  seemed  much  impressed. 

"Is  him  a  diant?"  he  asked,  gravely. 

"Very  nearly,  I  should  say,"  said  Percy,  laugh- 
ing, and  then,  as  he  had  already  seen  Mr.  Brand, 
who  had  met  Ted's  father  on  his  way  back  from 

A ,  Percy  ran  off  in  another  direction,  and  Ted 

followed  his  father  into  the  drawing-room. 

Mr.  Brand  was  sitting  talking  to  Ted's  mother, 
but  just  as  the  door  opened,  he  rose  from  his  seat 
and  came  forward. 

"I  was  just  going  to  ask  you  if  —  ah!  here's 
your  little  boy,"  he  said  to  Ted's  father.  Then, 
sitting  down  again,  he  drew  Ted  between  his  knees 
and  looked  kindly  at  the  small  innocent  face.  He 
was  very  fond  of  children,  but  he  did  not  know 
much  about  them,  and  Ted,  looking  and  feeling 
rather  overawed,  stood  more  silently  than  usual, 
staring  seriously  at  the  visitor. 


WISHES   AND   FEAKS.  47 

He  was  very  tall  and  very  big.  Whether  he 
quite  came  up  to  Ted's  idea  of  a  "diant"  I  cannot 
tell.  But  queer  fancies  began  to  chase  each  other 
round  the  boy's  brain.  There  had  been  a  good 
deal  to  excite  and  upset  the  little  fellow  —  at  no 
time  a  strong  child  —  that  day,  and  his  dream  when 
lying  asleep  on  the  grass  had  added  to  it  all. 
And  now,  as  he  stood  looking  up  at  big  Mr.  Brand, 
a  strange  confusion  of  ideas  filled  his  mind  —  of 
giants  tall  enough  to  reach  the  sky,  to  catch  and 
bring  down  some  of  the  cloud-wings  Ted  wished 
so  for,  interspersed  with  wondering  if  it  was  "  fissy 
oil "  that  had  made  this  big  man  so  very  big.  If 
he,  Ted,  were  to  take  a  great,  great  lot  of  fissy 
oil,  would  he  grow  as  big  and  strong?  Would  he 
be  able  to  cut  the  grass  like  David  perhaps,  to  run 
faster  than  Percy  —  to  —  to  I  don't  know  what- 
for  at  this  moment  Mr.  Brand's  voice  brought  him 
back  from  his  fancies. 

"What  an  absent-minded  little  fellow  he  is," 
Mr.  Brand  was  saying,  for  he  had  been  speaking 
to  Ted  two  or  three  times  without  the  child's 
paying  any  attention. 

"Not  generally,"  said  Ted's  mother.  "He  is 
usually  very  wide-awake  to  all  that  is  going  on. 
What  are  you  thinking  of,  Ted,  dear?" 

"  Yes, "  said  Mr.  Brand.  "  Tell  us  what  you've  got 
in  your  head.  Are  you  thinking  that  I'm  a  very  tiny 
little  man  —  the  tiniest  little  man  you  ever  saw?" 


48  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

"No,"  said  Ted  solemnly,  without  the  least  smile, 
at  which  his  mother  was  rather  surprised.  For, 
young  though  he  was,  Ted  was  usually  very  quick 
at  seeing  a  joke.  But  he  just  said  "No,"  and 
stared  again  at  Mr.  Brand,  without  another  word. 

"Then  what  were  you  thinking  —  that  I'm  the 
very  biggest  man  you  ever  did  see  ?  " 

"Ses,"  said  Ted,  gravely  still,  but  with  a  certain 
light  in  his  eyes  which  encouraged  Mr.  Brand  to 
continue  his  questions. 

"  And  what  more  ?  Were  you  wishing  you  were 
as  big  as  I  am?" 

Ted  hesitated. 

"I'd  rather  fly,"  he  said.  "But  Percy  says 
nobody  can  fly.  I'd  like  to  be  big  if  I  could  get 
up  very  high." 

"How  high?"  said  Mr.  Brand.  "Up  to  the  top 
of  the  mountain  out  there  ?  " 

"Is  the  mountain  as  high  as  the  clouds?"  asked 
Ted. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Brand;  "when  you're  up  at  the 
very  top,  you  can  look  down  on  the  clouds." 

Ted  looked  rather  puzzled. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  the  gentleman  went  on, 
amused  by  the  expression  of  the  child's  face,  "I'll 
tell  you  what  —  as  I'm  so  big,  supposing  I  take 
you  to  the  top  of  the  mountain  —  we'll  go  this 
very  afternoon.  I'll  take  a  jug  of  cold  water  and 
a  loaf  of  bread,  and  leave  it  with  you  there  so 


WISHES   AND   FEARS.  49 

that  you'll  have  something  to  eat,  and  then  you 
can  stay  there  quite  comfortable  by  yourself  and 
find  out  all  you  want  to  know.  You'd  like  that, 
wouldn't  you?  to  be  all  by  yourself  on  the  top 
of  the  mountain  ?  " 

He  looked  at  Ted  in  a  rather  queer  way  as  he 
said  it.  The  truth  was  that  Mr.  Brand,  who  though 
so  big  was  not  very  old,  was  carried  away  by  the 
fun  (to  him)  of  watching  the  puzzled  look  on  the 
child's  face,  and  forgot  that  what  to  him  was  a 
mere  passing  joke  might  be  very  different  to  the 
tender  little  four-years-old  boy. 

Ted's  face  grew  rather  white,  he  edged  away  a 
little  from  this  strange  gentleman,  whom  he  could 
not  make  out,  but  who  was  so  big  that  Ted  felt 
it  impossible  to  doubt  his  being  able  to  do  anything 
he  wished. 

"You'd  like  that,  wouldn't  you?"  he  repeated, 
quite  gravely,  and  glancing  at  Ted  with  slightly 
knitted  brows  which  made  the  boy  suddenly  think 
of  some  of  the  "ogre  "  stories  he  had  heard. 

"No,"  said  Ted  bluntly.  But  he  was  afraid  to 
say  more.  Ogres  didn't  like  to  be  contradicted, 
and  perhaps  — perhaps  this  strange  man  really 
thought  he  would  like  it,  and  really  meant  to 
please  him.  Anyway,  it  would  never  do  to  answer 
rudely,  though  Ted's  face  grew  still  paler,  when 
his  glance  fell  on  the  mountain  peak  clearly  to  be 
seen  out  of  the  window  from  where  he  stood,  and 


50  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

a  little  shiver  ran  through  him  when  he  thought 
that  perhaps  he  would  have  to  go,  whether  he  liked 
it  or  not.  He  edged  away  still  farther,  but  it  was 
no  use.  Mr.  Brand  had  put  his  arm  round  him, 
and  there  was  no  getting  away,  when  suddenly  a 
noise  outside  the  window  caught  the  gentleman's 
attention  and  he  started  up.  It  was  his  dog  bark- 
ing loudly,  and  Mr.  Brand,  fearing  he  might  have 
got  into  some  mischief,  stepped  out  through  the 
glass  door  to  see.  Ted  was  on  the  alert,  and  before 
any  one  in  the  room  had  noticed  him  he  was  off. 

Where  should  he  go  to?  He  dared  not  hide  in 
the  garden,  for  there  he  might  be  seen,  especially 
as  Mr.  Brand  was  running  about  after  his  dog; 
he  would  not  go  up  to  the  nursery,  for  nurse  would 
ask  him  why  he  had  not  stayed  downstairs;  he 
did  not  even  wish  to  find  Percy,  for  though  he 
could  not  have  explained  why,  he  felt  that  it  would 
be  impossible  for  him  to  tell  any  one  of  the  strange 
terror  that  Mr.  Brand's  joke  had  awakened.  He 
felt  ashamed  of  it,  afraid  too  that  if,  as  he  vaguely 
thought  might  be  the  case,  the  offer  had  been 
made  in  real  earnest  and  with  a  wish  to  please 
him,  his  dislike  to  it  would  be  ungrateful  and 
unkind.  Indeed  poor  Ted  was  more  troubled  than 
he  ever  remembered  to  have  been  in  his  whole 
little  life  —  he  could  think  of  nothing  for  it  but 
to  hide  till  all  danger  was  past. 

A  brilliant  idea  struck  him  —  he  would  go  and 


WISHES   AND  FEARS.  51 

pay  a  visit  to  cook!  It  was  not  very  often  he 
went  into  the  kitchen,  and  no  one  would  look  for 
him  there.  And  cook  was  kind,  very  kind  when 
not  very  busy.  So  with  a  slight  shudder  as,  run- 
ning past  the  open  front- door,  he  caught  sight  of 
the  well-known  mountain  peak,  frowning  at  him, 
as  it  seemed  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
Ted  made  his  way  to  cook's  quarters. 

She  was  not  in  the  kitchen,  but  hearing  some 
one  coming,  she  called  out  from  the  back  kitchen 
where  she  was.  That  was  better  still,  every  step 
the  farther  from  the  drawing-room,  or  from  Mr. 
Brand  rather,  was  a  gain.  So  Ted  trotted  into  the 
back  kitchen,  and  to  prevent  cook's  thinking  there 
was  anything  the  matter  asked  her  if  he  might 
play  with  the  cat.  He  found  a  piece  of  string, 
to  which  cook  tied  a  cork,  and  as  pussy  was  really 
more  of  a  kitten  than  a  cat,  he  amused  himself 
for  some  time  by  making  her  run  after  it,  whistling 
now  and  then  to  keep  up  his  heart,  though  had 
cook  looked  at  him  closely  she  could  have  seen 
how  white  he  was,  and  how  every  now  and  then 
he  threw  frightened  glances  over  his  shoulder. 

"Your  leg's  better,  Master  Ted?"  said  cook. 

"Oh  ses,  zank  thoo,"  said  Ted.  "Him's  much 
better." 

"You'll  have  to  take  care  never  to  touch  sharp 
tools  again,  won't  you?"  she  went  on,  as  she  bustled 
about  with  her  work. 


52  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

"Ses,"  he  said  again.  But  he  did  not  speak 
with  his  usual  heartiness,  and  cook,  who,  like  all 
the  servants,  loved  the  bright,  gentle  little  fellow, 
looked  at  him  rather  anxiously.  Suddenly  a  sound 
was  heard  —  wheels  on  the  gravel  drive. 

"What's  that,  cook?"  said  Ted,  starting. 

"Only  the  gentleman's  dog-cart  —  the  gentleman 
that's  been  to  see  your  papa.  He's  going  away," 
said  cook  composedly. 

Ted  hurried  into  the  kitchen.  From  the  win- 
dow the  dri.ve  could  be  seen  by  big  people,  though 
not  by  him. 

"Lift  me  up  on  the  table,  please,  cook,"  he  said, 
and  when  cook  good-naturedly  did  so,  and  he  saw 
the  giant  really,  actually  driving  away,  Ted  could 
almost  have  cried  with  pleasure.  But  his  fears 
and  his  relief  he  kept  in  his  own  little  heart. 

"Zank  thoo,  cook,"  he  said  gravely,  but  with  the 
pretty  courtesy  he  never  forgot.  "  Zank  thoo,  and 
please  lift  me  down  again." 

"He's  a  funny  little  fellow,"  said  cook  to  herself, 
as  she  watched  Ted  trot  off.  "I  wonder  what  he'd 
got  in  his  mind,  bless  him." 

Ted  reappeared  in  the  drawing-room. 

"Where  have  you  been,  dear?"  said  his  mother. 
"We  were  looking  about  for  you  to  say  good-bye 
to  Mr.  Brand.  Where  did  you  go  to?" 

"Ted  were  in  the  kitchen,  'peaking  to  cook,"  he 
replied. 


WISHES   AND    FEARS.  53 

"But  why  did  you  go  away,  dear,  while  Mr. 
Brand  was  here?"  asked  his  mother.  "Were  you 
frightened  of  his  dog  ?  " 

"No,  "said  Ted,  "Ted's  never  frightened  of  dogs." 

"No,  dear,  I  know  you're  not,"  said  his  mother. 
But  she  did  not  feel  satisfied.  Her  little  boy  did 
not  look  the  same  as  usual  somehow.  Still  she 
felt  it  was  better  to  ask  no  more  —  after  a  while 
Ted  would  perhaps  tell  her  of  himself.  And  she 
did  well,  for  it  would  have  been  almost  impossible 
for  him  to  tell  his  mingled  feelings. 

"Muzzer  likes  that  big  man,"  he  was  thinking  to 
himself.  "  Muzzer  thinks  he's  kind.  It's  naughty 
and  unkind  of  Ted  to  be  frightened,"  and  so  the 
loyal  little  man  kept  silence. 

And  it  was  not  for  a  long  time  —  not  till  Ted 
himself  had  learnt  to  "understand"  a  little  better, 
that  even  his  mother  understood  the  whole. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE   STOKY   OF   SUNNY. 

"  Of  course  he  was  the  giant, 
With  beard  as  white  as  snow." 

BUT  whenever  Mr.  Brand,  poor  man,  came  to  call, 
Ted  was  sure  in  some  mysterious  way  to  disappear. 
After  a  while  his  mother  began  to  notice  it,  though, 
as  Mr.  Brand  did  not  come  very  often,  she  did  not 
do  so  all  at  once.  She  noticed,  however,  another 
thing  which  she  was  sorry  for.  Ted  took  a  dislike 
to  the  big  mountain.  It  was  a  great  pity,  for 
before  that  he  had  been  so  fond  of  it  —  so  fond 
of  watching  the  different  expressions,  "  looks  "  Ted 
called  them,  that  it  wore  according  to  the  time  of 
day,  or  the  time  of  year,  or  the  weather.  And  his 
father  and  mother  had  been  pleased  to  see  him  so 
"noticing,"  for  such  a  little  boy;  they  thought  it 
showed,  as  indeed  it  did,  that  he  was  likely  to  grow 
into  a  happy-minded  and  happy-hearted  man. 

But  now  it  was  quite  different.  When  he  sat 
on  his  mother's  knee  in  the  drawing-room  he  would 
turn  his  little  face  to  the  side  away  from  the 
window  so  that  he  should  not  see  the  towering 
mountain-head.  He  would  never  laugh  at  his  old 

54 


THE   STORY   OF    SUNNY.  55 

friend's  putting  on  his  nightcap  of  mist,  as  he  used 
to  do,  and  all  his  pretty  fancies  about  being  able  to 
reach  the  dear  little  stars  if  he  were  up  on  the  top 
peak  of  all,  were  spoilt. 

"Something  has  frightened  Ted,"  said  his  mother 
to  his  father  one  day.  "I  wonder -what  it  can  be.  I 
know  you  wouldn't  frighten  him,  dear,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Percy  who  was  in  the  room,  though  of 
course  Ted  was  not  there,  otherwise  his  mother 
would  not  have  said  it,  "but  still,  has  there  been 
anything  in  your  play  that  could  have  done  so? 
Have  you  been  talking  about  mountains,  or  telling 
stories  about  them?" 

"No,"  said  Percy,  thoughtfully;  "I'm  sure  there 
has  been  nothing.  Shall  I  ask  Ted  about  it?  Per- 
haps he  wouldn't  mind  telling  me,  not  even  as  much 
as  — "  Percy  stopped  and  grew  a  little  red.  He 
was  a  boy  of  nice  feelings,  not  rough  and  knock- 
about in  his  ways  like  many  schoolboys. 

"  Not  even  as  much  as  telling  me,  you  were  -going 
to  say,"  said  Ted's  mother,  smiling.  "Never  mind, 
dear.  I  dare  say  it  would  be  easier  for  -him  to  tell 
you,  and  I  am  very  glad  my  little  boy .  has  such  a 
kind  Percy  to  talk  to.  But  I  think  perhaps  it  is 
better  to  say  nothing  to  him.  We  may  find  it  out 
by  degrees,  and  if  it  is  only  a  sort  of  fancy  —  he 
may  have  seen  the  mountain  looking  gloomy  some 
evening  —  it  may  fade  away  of  itself  more  quickly  if 
we  don't  notice  it." 


56  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILI). 

That  day  was  a  very  bright  and  lovely  one.  Ted's 
mother  thought  to  herself  she  would  like  to  do  some- 
thing to  make  Ted,  and  Percy  too,  "  extra  "  happy, 
for  the  weeks  had  been  running  on  fast  —  it  would 
soon  be  time  for  Percy,  not  being  a  little  fish, 
to  go  back  to  school.  And  Percy's  big  sister  was 
with  them  too  just  then.  She  was  even  bigger  than 
Percy,  so  of  course  Ted  thought  her  quite  grown  up, 
though  in  reality  she  was  a  good  many  years  off 
being  so.  She  was  very  nice  anyway,  with  a  gentle 
pretty  face  and  kind  eyes,  and  though  she  was  not 
very  old  she  was  very  clever  at  telling  stories,  which 
is  a  most  delightful  thing  in  a  big  sister  or  cousin 
—  is  it  not?  And  she  was  also  able  to  sing  very 
prettily,  another  delightful  thing,  or  at  least  so  Ted 
thought,  for  he  was  so  fond  of  singing.  This  big 
girl's  name  was  Mabel. 

And  after  thinking  a  while  and  talking  about  it 
to  Mabel,  Ted's  mother  thought  the  nicest  thing 
would  be  to  have  tea  in  a  lonely  little  nesty  place  in 
the  gorge  between  the  mountains  that  I  have  told 
you  of.  We  were  to  go  there  with  Ted  and  Cheviott 
some  day,  by  the  bye,  were  we  not?  Well,  never 
mind,  Cheviott  shall  be  —  that  is  to  say  he  was  —  of 
the  gipsy  tea-party,  so  that  will  come  to  the  same 
thing,  will  it  not  ? 

They  all  set  off  —  Ted's  father  and  mother,  another 
gentleman  and  lady  who  were  staying  for  the  summer 
in  a  cottage  not  far  off,  that  they  might  be  near  their 


THE   STORY  OF   SUNNY.  57 

friends,  their  daughter  who  was  really  grown  up,  and 
Mabel  and  Percy  and  Ted.  You  can  fancy  the  bread 
and  butter  there  was  to  cut,  the  home-made  cake,  the 
tea  and  sugar  and  cream  that  must  not  be  forgotten. 
And  when  all  the  baskets  were  ready  and  everybody 
was  helping  and  planning  how  to  carry  them,  who 
do  you  think  got  hold  of  the  biggest  of  all  and  was 
trying  to  lug  it  along  ?  Who  but  our  four-years-old 
Ted? 

"My  boy,  my  boy,"  cried  his  mother,  laughing, 
for  he  did  look  comical  —  the  basket  being  really 
very  nearly  as  big  as  himself  and  his  little  face 
already  quite  red  with  the  exertion,  "you  cannot 
possibly  take  that  basket.  Why,  I  could  scarcely 
carry  it." 

"But  boys  is  stronger  than  muzzers,"  said  Ted 
gravely,  and  it  was  really  with  difficulty  that  they 
could  persuade  him  to  give  it  up,  and  only  then  by 
letting  him  carry  another  which  looked  nearly  as 
important  but  was  in  reality  much  lighter,  as  it  only 
held  the  tablecloth  and  the  teapot  and  teaspoons. 

I  have  not  told  you  about  the  gorge  —  not  told 
you,  I  mean,  how  lovely  it  was.  Nor  if  I  talked 
about  it  for  hours  could  I  half  describe  its  beauty. 
In  spring  time  perhaps  it  was  the  prettiest  of  all, 
for  then  it  was  rich  in  the  early  blossoms  and  flowers 
that  are  so  quickly  over,  and  that  seem  to  us  doubly 
precious  after  the  flower  famine  of  the  winter.  But 
not  even  in  the  early  spring  time,  with  all  the 


58  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

beauty  of  primroses  and  violets,  could  the  gorge  look 
lovelier  than  it  did,  this  summer  afternoon.  For  the 
ferns  and  bracken  never  seemed  dusty  and  withered 
in  this  favoured  place  —  the  grass  and  moss  too,  kept 
their  freshness  through  all  the  hot  days  as  if  tended 
by  fairy  fingers.  It  was  thanks  to  the  river  you  see 
—  the  merry  beautiful  little  river  that  came  dancing 
down  the  centre  of  this  mountain-pass,  at  one  part 
turning  itself  into  a  waterfall,  then,  as  if  tired,  for 
a  little  flowing  along  more  quietly  through  a  short 
space  of  less  precipitous  road.  But  always  beauti- 
ful, always  kindly  and  generous  to  the  happy  dwellers 
on  its  banks,  keeping  them  cool  in  the  hottest  days, 
tossing  here  and  there  its  spray  of  pearly  drops  as 
if  in  pretty  fun. 

On  each  side  of  the  water  ran  a  little  footpath, 
and  here  and  there  roughly-made  rustic  bridges 
across  it  tempted  you  to  see  if  the  other  side  was 
as  pretty  as  this,  though  when  you  had  stood  still 
to  consider  about  it  you  found  it  impossible  to  say! 
The  paths  were  here  and  there  almost  completely 
hidden,  for  they  were  so  little  trodden  that  the  moss 
had  it  all  its  own  way  with  them,  and  sometimes  too 
it  took  a  scramble  and  a  climb  to  fight  one's  way 
through  the  tangled  knots  and  fallen  fragments  of 
rock  which  encumbered  them.  But  now  and  then 
there  came  a  bit  of  level  ground  where  the  gorge 
widened  slightly,  and  then  the  path  stopped  for  a 
while  in  a  sort  of  glade  from  which  again  it  emerged 


THE   STORY   OF   SUNNY.  59 

on  the  other  side.  It  was  in  one  of  these  glades  that 
Ted's  mother  arranged  the  gipsy  tea.  Can  you 
imagine  a  prettier  place  for  a  summer  day's  treat? 
Overhead  the  bluest  of  blue  skies  and  sunshine, 
tempered  by  the  leafy  screen-work  of  the  thickly 
growing  trees;  at  one  side  the  soft  rush  of  the 
silvery  river,  whose  song  was  here  low  and  gentle, 
though  one  could  hear  in  the  distance  the  boom  of 
the  noisy  waterfall ;  at  the  other  side  the  mountain 
slope,  whose  short  brown  slippery  turf  seemed  to 
tempt  one  to  a  climb.  And  close  at  hand  the  wealth 
of  ferns  and  bracken  and  flowers  that  I  have  told  you 
of  —  a  little  higher  up  strange  gleaming  balls  of 
many  kinds  of  fungus,  yellow  and  orange,  and  even 
scarlet,  flamed  out  as  if  to  rival  the  softer  tints  of 
the  trailing  honeysuckle  and  delicate  convolvulus 
and  pink  foxglove  below.  It  was  a  lovely  dream  of 
fairyland,  and  the  knowing  that  not  far  away  the 
waves  of  the  broad  blue  sea  were  gently  lapping  the 
sandy  shore  seemed  somehow  to  make  it  feel  all 
the  lovelier. 

The  tea  of  course  was  a  great  success  —  when  was 
a  gipsy  tea,  unless  people  are  very  cross-tempered 
and  fidgety  and  difficult  to  please,  anything  else? 
The  kettle  did  its  duty  well,  for  the  water  boiled  in 
it  beautifully  on  the  fire  of  dry  sticks  and  leaves 
which  Percy  and  Mabel,  and  busy  Ted  of  course,  had 
collected.  The  tea  tasted  very  good  —  "not  'moky 
at  all,"  said  Ted;  the  slices  of  bread  and  butter  and 


60  A   CHRISTMAS  CHILD. 

cake  disappeared  in  a  wonderful  way,  till  at  last 
everybody  said  "No,  thank  you,  not  any  more,"  when 
the  boys  handed  round  the  few  disconsolate-looking 
pieces  that  remained. 

And  after  this  there  was  the  fun  of  washing  up 
and  packing  away,  in  which  Ted  greatly  distin- 
guished himself.  He  would  not  leave  the  least 
shred  of  paper  or  even  crumbs  about,  for  the  fairies 
would  be  angry,  he  said,  if  their  pretty  house  wasn't 
left  "  kite  tidy. "  And  Percy  and  Mabel  were  amused 
at  his  fancy,  and  naturally  enough  it  set  them  talk- 
ing about  fairies  and  such  like.  For  the  children 
were  by  themselves  now  —  the  ladies  had  gone  on  a 
little  farther  to  a  place  where  Ted's  mother  wanted 
to  sketch,  and  the  gentlemen  had  set  off  to  climb  to 
the  nearest  peak,  from  whence  there  was  a  beautiful 
view  of  the  sea.  It  would  have  been  too  much  for 
Ted,  and  indeed  when  his  father  had  asked  him  if  he 
would  like  to  go  part  of  the  way  with  them,  both  his 
mother  and  Percy  noticed  that  a  troubled  look  came 
over  his  happy  face,  as  he  said  he  would  rather  stay 
where  he  was,  which  was  strange  for  him,  for  though 
such  a  little  boy,  he  was  always  eager  for  a  climb 
and  anxious  to  do  whatever  he  saw  any  one  else 
doing.  So  kind  Percy,  mindful  of  Ted's  mother's 
words,  said  he  would  not  go  either,  and  stayed  with 
the  others,  helping  them  to  tidy  up  the  fairies' 
house. 

"Now,"  said  Ted  at  last,  sitting  down   on   the 


THE   STOKY  OF   SUNNY.  61 

* 

grass  at  Mabel's  feet,  "now  I  sink  the  fairies  will 
be  p'eased.  It's  all  kite  tidy.  Fairies  is  always 
angry  if  peoples  is  untidy." 

"I  thought  fairies  were  always  in  a  good  humour," 
said  Percy.  "I  didn't  know  they  were  ever  angry." 

"Oh,  I  think  Ted's  right,"  said  Mabel.  "They 
are  angry  with  people  who  are  dirty  or  untidy. 
Don't  you  remember  a  story  about  them  coming  to 
work  in  a  house  where  the  kitchen  was  always  left 
tidy  at  night?  And  they  never  would  come  to  the 
next  house  because  it  was  always  in  a  mess." 

"P'ease  tell  me  that  story,  Mabel,"  said  Ted. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  remember  it  very  well,"  she 
replied. 

"Do  you  remember,"  said  Percy,  who  was  lying 
on  the  ground  staring  up  at  the  sky  and  the  bit  of 
brown  mountain  peak  that  could  be  seen  from  where 
he  was,  "  do  you  remember,  Mab,  the  story  of  a  little 
boy  that  fell  asleep  on  the  top  of  a  mountain,  and 
the  fairies  spirited  him  away,  and  took  him  down  to 
their  country,  down  inside  the  mountain?  And  he 
thought  he  had  only  been  away  —  when  he  came 
home  again,  I  mean,  for  they  had  to  let  him  out 
again  after  a  while  —  he  thought  he  had  only  been 
away  a  day  or  two,  and,  fancy,  it  had  been  twenty 
years!  All  the  children  had  grown  big,  and  the 
young  people  middle-aged,  and  the  middle-aged  peo- 
ple quite  old,  and  none  of  them  knew  him  again. 
He  had  lost  all  his  childhood.  Wasn't  it  sad?" 


62  A    CHKISTMAS    CHILD. 

"Yes,  very,"  said  Mabel;  "I  remember  the  story." 

"I  think  it's  dedful,"  said  Ted.  "I  don't  like 
mountains,  and  I  don't  like  diants.  I'll  never  go 
up  a  mountain,  never." 

"But  it  wasn't  the  mountain's  fault,  Ted,"  said 
Percy.  "And  it  wasn't  giants,  it  was  fairies." 

"I  sink  p'raps  it  was  diants,"  persisted  Ted.  "I 
don't  like  zem.  Mr.  Brand  is  a  diant,"  he  added 
mysteriously,  in  a  low  voice. 

Percy  had  been  thinking  of  what  Ted's  mother 
had  said.  Now  he  felt  sure  that  it  was  something 
to  do  with  Mr.  Brand  that  had  frightened  the  little 
fellow.  But  Mabel  did  not  know  about  it. 

"I  like  mountains,"  she  said.  "Indeed  I  love 
them.  I  am  always  so  glad  to  live  where  I  can 
see  their  high  peaks  reaching  up  into  the  sky." 

"  But  it  wouldn't  be  nice  to  be  alone,  kite  alone, 
on  the  top  of  one  of  zem,  would  it?"  said  Ted. 

"  No,  it  wouldn't  be  nice  to  be  alone  in  any  far-off 
place  like  that,"  said  Percy,  "but  of  course  nobody 
would  ever  stay  up  on  the  top  of  a  mountain  alone." 

"But  if  zem  was  made  to,"  said  Ted  doubtfully. 
"I  wouldn't  mind  so  much  if  I  had  Chevie,"  he 
added,  putting  his  arm  round  the  dear  doggie's  neck 
and  leaning  his  little  fair  head  on  him,  for  of  course 
Chevie  was  of  the  party. 

"  Poor  Ted, "  said  Percy,  laughing.  "  No  one  would 
ever  make  you  live  up  all  alone  on  the  top  of  a 
mountain.  Mabel,  I  wish  you'd  tell  us  a  story,"  he 


THE    STOKY   OF    SUNNY.  63 

said  to  his  sister.  "  It's  so  nice  here.  I  shall  go  to 
sleep  if  somebody  doesn't  do  something  to  keep  me 
awake." 

He  was  lying  at  full  length  on  the  soft  mossy 
grass  in  the  same  place  still,  and  gazing  up  at  the 
blue  sky  and  brown  mountain  peak.  "Tell  us  a 
story,  Mab,"  he  repeated  lazily. 

"I  haven't  got  any  very  nice  ones  just  now,"  said 
Mabel.  "  I  have  been  so  busy  with  my  lessons,  you 
know,  Percy,  that  I  haven't  had  time  for  any  stories." 

"Can't  you  make  them  up  yourself?"  said  Percy. 

"Sometimes  I  do,  a  little,"  she  replied.  "But  I 
can't  make  them  all  quite  myself.  Sometimes  in 
our  German  reading-books  there  are  funny  little  bits 
of  stories,  and  I  add  on  to  them.  There  was  one  — 
oh  yes,  I'll  tell  you  one  about  a  giant  who  lived  on 
the  top  of  a  mountain." 

Ted  drew  nearer  to  Mabel,  and  nestled  in  to  her 
side. 

"A  diant  on  the  top  of  a  mountain,"  he  repeated. 
"Is  it  very  Tightening,  Mabel?" 

"Oh  no.  Listen  and  I'll  tell  you.  Once,  a  long 
time  ago,  there  was,  a  long  way  off,  a  strange  coun- 
try. There  were  lots  and  lots  of  forests  in  it,  and 
at  the  side  of  the  biggest  forest  of  all  there  rose  a 
chain  of  high  mountains.  The  people  who  lived  in 
this  .forest  were  poor,  simple  sort  of  people  —  they 
hadn't  much  time  for  anything  but  work,  for  it  was 
difficult  to  gain  enough  to  live  on.  Most  of  them 


64  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

were  charcoal-burners,  and  there  were  not  very  many 
of  them  altogether.  Of  course  in  a  forest  there 
wouldn't  be  much  room  for  cottages  and  houses, 
would  there  ?  And  their  cottages  were  none  of  them 
near  together.  Each  family  had  its  own  hut,  quite 
separated  from  the  others,  and  unless  you  belonged 
to  the  forest  you  could  hardly  find  your  way  from 
one  part  of  it  to  the  other.  The  poor  people,  too, 
were  so  busy  that  they  had  not  much  time  for  going 
to  see  each  other,  or  for  amusing  themselves  in  any 
way.  They  all  had  a  pale  sad  look,  something  like 
the  look  that  I  have  heard  papa  say  the  poor  people 
in  some  parts  of  England  have  —  the  people  in  those 
parts  where  they  work  so  awfully  hard  in  dark  smoky 
towns  and  never  see  the  sun,  or  the  green  fields,  or 
anything  fresh  and  pretty.  Of  course  the  forest 
people  were  not  as  badly  off  as  that  —  for  their  work 
anyway  was  in  the  open  air,  and  the  forest  was 
clean  —  not  like  dirty  factories,  even  though  it  was 
so  dark.  It  was  the  want  of  sunshine  that  was  their 
worst  trouble,  and  that  gave  them  that  white,  dull, 
half-frightened  look.  The  forest  was  too  thick  and 
dense  for  the  sun  to  get  really  into  it,  even  in  win- 
ter, and  then,  of  course,  the  rays  are  so  thin  and  pale 
that  they  aren't  much  good  if  they  do  come.  And 
the  mountains  at  the  side  came  so  close  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  forest  that  there  was  no  getting  any 
sunshine  there  either,  for  it  was  the  north  side  there, 
the  side  that  the  sunshine  couldn't  get  to.  So  for 


THE   STORY   OF   SUNNY.  65 

these  reasons  the  place  had  come  to  be  called  'the 
sunless  country. ' ' 

"What  was  there  at  the  other  side  of  the  forest?" 
said  Percy;  "couldn't  they  have  got  into  the  sun- 
shine at  that  side  ?  " 

"  No, "  said  Mabel.  "  I  think  there  was  a  river  or 
something.  Or  else  it  was  that  the  forest  was  so 
very,  very  big  that  it  would  have  been  quite  a  jour- 
ney to  get  out  at  any  other  side.  I  think  that  was 
it.  Anyway  they  couldn't.  And  they  just  had  to 
live  on  without  sunshine  as  well  as  they  could. 
Their  fathers  had  done  so  before  them,  and  there  was 
no  help  for  it,  they  thought.  They  were  too  poor 
and  too  hard-worked  to  move  away  to  another  coun- 
try, or  to  do  anything  but  just  go  through  each  day 
as  it  came  in  a  dull  sad  way,  seldom  speaking  even 
to  each  other. 

"  But  do  you  know,  it  had  not  always  been  so  in 
the  sunless  forest,  though  the  better  times  were  so 
long  ago  that  hardly  any  of  the  poor  people  knew  it 
had  ever  been  different.  There  had,  once  upon  a 
time,  been  a  way  into  the  sunshine  on  the  other  side 
of  the  mountain,  and  this  way  lay  right  through  the 
great  hill  itself.  But  the  mountain  belonged  to  a 
great  and  very  powerful  giant "  —  at  this  Ted  edged 
still  closer  to  Mabel  —  "who  lived  in  it  quite  alone. 
Sometimes  he  used  to  come  out  at  a  hole  in  the  top, 
which  was  his  door,  and  stay  up  there  for  a  while 
looking  about  him,  staring  at  the  black  forest  down 


66  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

at  his  feet,  and  smiling  grimly  to  himself  at  the 
thought  of  how  dark  and  dull  it  must  be  for  the 
people  who  lived  in  it.  For  he  was  not  a  kind 
giant  at  all.  It  was  he  that  had  shut  up  the 
passage  through  which  the  poor  forest  people  used 
to  pass  to  their  bright  cottages  on  the  other  side,  for 
in  those  days  they  didn't  live  in  the  forest,  they  only 
went  there  for  their  work,  and  on  Sundays  and  holi- 
days they  were  all  happy  and  merry  together,  and  the 
little  children  grew  up  rosy  and  bright,  quite  differ- 
ent from  the  poor  little  wan-faced  creatures  that  now 
hung  sadly  about  at  the  hut  doors  in  the  forest, 
looking  as  if  they  didn't  know  how  to  laugh  or  play." 

"Why  did  the  naughty  diant  shut  up  the  way?" 
asked  Ted. 

"  Because  he  had  a  quarrel  with  the  forest  people. 
He  wanted  them  to  let  their  little  boys  and  girls,  or 
some  of  them,  come  to  him  to  be  his  servants,  but 
they  wouldn't,  and  so  he  was  so  angry  that  he  shut 
up  the  door.  But  that  was  so  long  ago  now  that  the 
people  had  almost  forgotten  about  it  —  the  children 
that  the  giant  had  wanted  to  be  his  servants  were 
old  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  now,  and  some  of 
them  were  dead,  I  dare  say,  so  that  the  real  history 
of  their  troubles  was  forgotten  by  them  but  not  by 
the  giant,  for  whenever  he  came  out  at  the  top  of  the 
mountain  to  take  some  air,  he  used  to  look  down  at 
the  forest  and  think  how  dull  and  miserable  they 
must  be  there." 


THE   STOKY   OF   SUNNY.  67 

"Nasty  diant,"  said  Ted. 

"Yes,  he  was  very  unkind,  but  still  I  think  you 
would  have  been  rather  sorry  for  him  too.  He  was 
old  and  all  alone,  and  of  course  nobody  loved  him. 
The  people  in  the  forest  hardly  ever  spoke  of  him. 
They  knew  he  was  there,  or  that  he  used  to  be  there, 
and  now  and  then  some  of  the  children  who  had 
heard  about  him  used  to  feel  afraid  of  him  and 
whisper  to  each  other  that  he  would  eat  them  up  if 
he  could  catch  them,  but  that  was  about  all  the 
notice  they  took  of  him.  They  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  that  he  was  the  cause  of  their  sad,  gloomy 
lives,  and  indeed  I  am  not  sure  that  any  except  some 
very  old  people  really  knew.  Among  these  very  old 
people  there  were  a  man  and  his  wife  who  were 
almost  the  poorest  of  all  in  the  forest.  They  were 
so  poor  because  they  were  almost  past  work,  and 
they  had  no  children  to  work  for  them.  All  that 
they  had  was  a  little  granddaughter,  who  lived  with 
them  because  her  father  and  mother  were  dead. 
And  it  was  a  queer  thing  that  she  was  quite  differ- 
ent from  the  other  poor  children  in  the  forest.  They 
were  all  pale  and  sad  and  crushed-looking  like  their 
parents.  This  little  girl  was  bright-haired  and 
bright-eyed  and  rosy-cheeked.  She  was  the  one 
merry  happy  creature  in  the  forest,  and  all  the  poor 
people  used  to  stand  and  look  at  her  as  she  flitted 
about,  and  wish  that  their  children  were  the  same. 
I  don't  know  what  her  real  name  was;  the  story 


68  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

didn't  tell,  but  the  name  she  got  to  have  among  the 
forest  people  was  Sunshine  —  at  least  it  was  Sun- 
shine in  German,  but  I  think  'Sunny'  is  a  nicer 
name,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Percy;  and 

"Ses,"  said  Ted,  "'Sunny'  is  nicest." 

"Well,  we'll  call  her  'Sunny.'  The  reason  that 
she  was  so  different  was  partly  that  she  hadn't  been 
born  in  the  forest.  Her  father,  who  was  the  son  of 
these  old  people,  had  gone  away,  as  some  few  of  the 
forest  people  did,  to  another  country,  and  there  he 
had  married  a  bright-haired,  pretty  girl.  But  she 
had  died,  and  he  himself  got  very  ill,  and  he  had 
only  strength  to  bring  his  baby  girl  back  to  the  forest 
to  his  parents  when  he  too  died.  So  Sunny's  his- 
tory had  been  rather  sad,  you  see,  but  still  it  hadn't 
made  her  sad  —  it  seemed  as  if  the  sunshine  was 
in  her  somehow,  and  that  nothing  could  send  it 
away." 

Mabel  stopped.  Voices  and  steps  were  heard 
coming  near. 

"They're  coming  back,"  she  said.  "I'll  have  to 
finish  the  story  another  time.  I  didn't  think  it 
would  take  so  long  to  tell." 

"  Oh  do  go  on  now,  dear,  dear  Mabel,  oh  do  !  "  cried 
Ted  beseechingly. 

But  Mabel's  fair  face  grew  red. 

"I  couldn't,  Ted,  dear,"  she  said,  "not  before  big 
people,"  and  Percy  sympathised  with  her. 


THE   STOKY   OF   SUNNY.  69 

"We'll  hear  the  rest  in  the  garden  at  home,"  he 
said. 

"  Thoo  won't  tell  it  without  me,  not  without  Ted, 
p'ease,"  asked  the  little  fellow. 

"No,  no,  of  course  not,  darling,"  said  Mabel  as 
she  kissed  his  eager  face. 

Just  then  a  ray  of  bright  evening  sunshine  fell  on 
Ted's  brown  hair,  lighting  it  up  and  deepening  it  to 
gold,  and  as  the  little  fellow  caught  it  in  his  eyes, 
he  looked  up  laughing. 

"There's  Sunny  kissing  Ted  too,"  he  said  merrily. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   STORY  OF   SUNNY  (Concluded). 

"  A  child  of  light,  a  radiant  lass, 
And  cheerful  as  the  morning  air." 

THEY  were  all  three  laughing  at  Ted's  wit 
when  his  mother  and  the  other  ladies  came  upon 
them. 

"You  seem  very  happy,  children,"  said  she. 

"Oh  ses,"  said  Ted.  "Mabel  has  been  telling  us 
such  a  lovely  story.  It's  not  finnied  yet.  She's 
going  to  tell  the  rest  in  the  garden  at  home.  Oh,  I 
am  so  happy.  It's  been  such  a  sprendid  day." 

He  began  half  humming  to  himself  in  the  excess 
of  his  delight. 

"Ted  wishes  somebody  would  sing  a  song,"  he 
said. 

His  mother  glanced  at  Mabel.  Poor  Mabel's  face 
grew  very  red  again.  It  would  be  worse  than  telling 
a  story. 

"If  we  all  sang  together,"  she  said  timidly,  "I 
wouldn't  mind  trying  to  begin." 

So  in  a  minute  or  two  her  clear  young  voice  sang 
out  —  like  a  lark's  it  seemed  to  mount  higher  and 
still  higher,  gathering  strength  and  courage  as  it 

70 


THE    STORY   OF   SUNNY.  71 

grew,  and  then  softly  dropping  again  as  if  to  fetch 
the  others,  who  joined  her  in  the  old  familiar  chorus 
of  the  simple  song  she  had  chosen  —  "  Home,  sweet 
home." 

Ted  listened  entranced,  and  his  little  voice  here 
and  there  could  be  distinguished.  But  suddenly, 
as  Mabel  stopped  and  a  momentary  silence  fell  on 
them  all,  he  turned  to  his  mother,  and  throwing 
himself  into  her  arms,  burst  into  tears. 

"Muzzer,"  he  said,  "I  can't  bear  it.  It's  too 
pitty,"  and  though  his  mother  and  Mabel  soothed 
the  excited  little  fellow  with  gentle  words  and 
caresses,  there  were  tears  in  more  eyes  than  Ted's 
as  they  all  thanked  Mabel  for  her  singing. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  they  had  the  rest  of  the 
story.  The  children  were  all  in  the  garden  together, 
not  far  from  Ted's  favourite  "bridge."  They  could 
hear  the  babble  of  the  little  brook  as  it  chattered 
past  in  the  sunshine,  and  now  and  then  the  distant 
cry  of  a  sea-bird  would  sound  through  the  clear  air, 
making  Cheviott  prick  up  his  ears  and  look  very 
wide-awake  all  of  a  sudden,  though  in  reality,  being 
no  longer  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  he  was  apt  to 
get  rather  drowsy  on  a  hot  afternoon. 

"  We'se  all  ready,  Mabel,"  said  Ted,  settling  him- 
self down  comfortably  in  his  favourite  rest  at  her 
side.  "Now  go  on  p'ease.  I  can  see  the  top  of  the 
mountain  kite  nice  from  here,  and  zen  I  can  sink  I'll 
see  the  old  diant  poking  his  head  out,"  evidently  the 


72  A   CHRISTMAS   CHIM). 

child's  fear  of  the  mountain  was  fast  becoming  a 
thing  of  the  past,  and  Percy  felt  quite  pleased. 

"Well,"  began  Mabel,  "I  was  telling  you  that 
Sunny  had  lived  with  her  old  grandfather  and  grand- 
mother since  she  was  quite  little.  They  were  very 
kind  to  her,  but  they  were  very  poor,  almost  the 
poorest  of  all  in  the  forest.  And  yet  their  cottage 
never  seemed  quite  so  dull  and  sad  as  the  others. 
How  could  it,  when  there  was  always  Sunny 's  bright 
head  flitting  about,  and  her  merry  voice  sounding 
like  a  bird's  ? 

"  The  old  people  looked  at  her  half  with  pleasure 
and  half  sadly. 

"4It  can't  last,'  the  old  man  said  one  day,  when 
the  little  girl  was  running  and  jumping  about  in  her 
usual  happy  way. 

"  The  old  woman  knew  what  he  meant  without  his 
explaining,  and  she  nodded  her  head  sadly,  and  just 
then  Sunny  came  flying  into  the  cottage  to  show 
them  some  flowers  she  had  actually  found  in  the 
forest,  which,  you  see,  was  the  greatest  wonder  pos- 
sible, for  there  were  almost  never  any  flowers  to  be 
seen.  And  Sunny  told  them  how  she  had  found 
them  in  a  little  corner  where  the  trees  did  not  grow 
quite  so  thick,  so  that  more  light  could  get  in. 
And  when  she  saw  how  surprised  the  old  people 
were,  she  looked  at  them  rather  strangely,  and  some 
new  thoughts  seemed  to  be  awaking  in.  her  mind, 
and  she  said,  'Grandfather,  why  aren't  there  more 


THE   STORY   OF   SUNNY.  73 

flowers  in  the  forest,  and  why  am  I  the  only  little 
girl  that  laughs  and  sings?  Why  does  everybody 
look  sad  here  ?  I  can  remember  a  little,  just  a  little, 
about  the  other  country  I  lived  in  before  I  came 
here.  People  used  to  laugh  and  smile  there,  and 
my  mother  had  bright  hair  like  mine,  and  father  too 
was  not  sad  till  after  mother  had  gone  away  and  we 
came  to  this  dark  land.  Why  is  it  so  dark,  and 
why  do  you  all  look  so  sad  ? ' 

"  The  old  man  told  her  it  was  all  for  want  of  the 
sun,  'the  blessed  sun, '  he  called  it,  and  Sunny  thought 
about  his  words  a  great  deal.  And  bit  by  bit  she 
got  the  whole  story  from  him,  for  he  was  one  of  the 
few  remaining  old  people  who  knew  the  reason  of 
their  misfortunes.  And  Sunny  thought  and  thought 
it  over  so  much  that  she  began  to  leave  off  dancing 
and  laughing  and  singing  as  she  used,  so  that  her 
poor  grandfather  and  grandmother  began  to  be  afraid 
that  the  sadness  of  the  forest  was  at  last  spoiling  her 
happy  nature,  and  for  a  while  they  were  very  sorry 
about  her.  But  one  day  she  told  them  what  she  had 
in  her  mind.  This  was  what  she  said  to  them  — 

"  'Dear  grandfather  and  grandmother,  I  cannot  bear 
to  see  the  sadness  of  the  poor  people  here,  and  I  have 
been  thinking  if  nothing  can  be  done.  And  a  few 
nights  ago  I  had  a  strange  dream.  I  dreamt  that  a 
beautiful  lady  stood  beside  me  and  said,  "  Go,  Sunny, 
and  have  no  fear.  The  giant  will  not  harm  you." 
And  since  then  it  has  come  into  my  mind  that  I 


74  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILI). 

might  win  back  the  sunshine  for  our  poor  neigh- 
bours, and  for  you  too,  dear  grandfather  and  grand- 
mother, for  ypu  are  not  so  very  old  yet,  if  you  will 
let  me  go  to  see  if  I  can  melt  the  giant's  hard  heart. ' 

"Sunny  was  standing  in  front  of  the  old  couple, 
and  as  she  spoke,  to  their  amazement,  a  sudden  ray 
of  sunshine  crept  in  through  the  little  rough  window 
of  the  cottage  and  fell  softly  on  her  bright  head. 
Her  grandfather  looked  at  her  grandmother,  and  her 
grandmother  looked  at  her  grandfather.  They  didn't 
know  how  to  speak  —  they  were  so  surprised.  Never, 
since  they  were  quite,  quite  little  children  had  they 
seen  such  a  thing.  And  they  whispered  to  each 
other  that  it  must  be  a  magic  sign,  they  must  let  the 
child  go.  I  think  it  was  very  good  and  kind  of  them 
to  let  her  go,  the  only  thing  they  had  to  cheer  them. 
The  tears  rolled  down  their  poor  old  faces  as  they 
said  good-bye  to  her,  not  knowing  if  they  would  live 
to  see  her  return.  But  they  said  to  each  other,  4We 
have  not  very  many  years  to  live.  It  would  be  very 
wrong  of  us  to  lose  the  chance  of  life  and  happiness 
for  all  the  poor  forest  people  just  to  keep  our  bit  of 
sunshine  to  ourselves.'  And  so  they  let  her  go,  for 
they  were  good  old  people." 

"Ses,"  said  Ted,  "zem  was  very  kind.  But  how 
dedful  for  Sunny  to  have  to  go  to  the  diant.  Did 
her  go  all  alone,  Mabel?" 

"  Yes,  all  alone.  But  she  wasn't  frightened.  And 
somehow  her  grandfather  and  grandmother  weren't 


THE   STOKY   OF   SUNNY.  75 

frightened  for  her  either.  They  had  a  feeling  that 
she  had  to  go,  and  so  she  did.  She  set  off  the  very 
next  morning.  Her  grandfather  explained  the  way 
to  her,  for  old  as  he  was  he  had  never  forgotten  the 
days  when  the  passage  through  the  giant's  mountain 
was  left  free  and  open,  so  that  there  was  no  need 
for  the  forest  people  to  spend  all  their  lives  in  the 
gloom  and  shade. 

"Sunny  walked  quietly  along  the  dark  paths 
among  the  trees.  She  didn't  dance  and  skip  as 
usual,  for  she  felt  as  if  all  of  a  sudden  she  had 
grown  almost  into  a  woman,  with  the  thought  of 
what  she  had  to  do  for  her  poor  neighbours.  And 
as  she  looked  about  her,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  never 
before  quite  noticed  how  dark  and  chill  and  gloomy 
it  was.  She  had  a  good  way  to  walk,  for  since  the 
closing  of  the  passage  the  people  had  moved  farther 
and  farther  into  the  forest.  They  had  grown  afraid 
of  the  giant,  and  were  glad  to  get  as  far  from  him 
as  they  could,  for  there  was  no  good  to  be  got  by 
staying  near  him.  So  Sunny  walked  on,  past  the 
cottages  she  knew,  where  she  nodded  to  the  people 
she  saw,  but  without  speaking  to  them,  which  was 
so  unlike  her  usual  merry  way  that  they  all  looked 
after  her  in  surprise  and  wondered  what  had  come 
over  the  little  girl.  And  one  or  two  of  them  shook 
their  heads  and  said  sadly  that  she  was  getting  to 
be  like  the  rest  of  them.  But  Sunny  walked  on, 
farther  and  farther,  now  and  then  smiling  quietly  to 


T6  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

herself,  and  her  bright  little  head  shining  in  the 
darkness  almost  as  if  the  sun  was  lighting  it  up. 
She  went  a  good  way,  but  there  was  nothing  new  or 
different.  It  was  always  the  dark  forest  and  the 
gloomy  trees.  But  at  last  she  saw,  close  to  her, 
behind  the  trees,  the  dark  sides  of  the  great  moun- 
tain, and  she  knew  that  she  must  be  near  the 
closed-up  door." 

"Oh!  "  said  Ted,  "wasn't  her  afraid  of  bears?" 

"No,"  said  Mabel,  "she  wasn't  afraid  of  anything. 
She  went  quietly  up  to  the  door  and  stood  before  it. 
It  was  barred  and  barred  with  iron,  and  it  was  so 
long  since  it  had  been  opened  that  the  ivy  and  those 
sorts  of  plants  had  grown  all  over  it,  creeping  round 
the  iron  bars.  It  looked  as  if  it  hadn't  been  opened 
for  a  hundred  years,  and  I  dare  say  it  hadn't  been. 
But  Sunny  knew  what  to  do.  She  hunted  about 
among  the  leaves  and  branches  till  she  found  a  little 
silver  knob  —  her  grandfather  had  told  her  about  it ; 
and  the  queer  thing  was  that  though  the  iron  bars 
were  quite  rusted  over  so  that  you  wouldn't  have 
known  what  they  were,  the  little  silver  knob  *was 
still  bright  and  shining  as  if  it  had  been  cleaned 
every  day  always." 

"Wif  plate-powder,"  said  Ted,  who  was  very- 
learned  about  such  matters,  as  he  was  very  fond  of 
watching  the  servants  at  their  work.  • 

"Yes,"  said  Mabel,  "just  as  if  it  had  been  cleaned 
with  plate-powder.  Well,  Sunny  pressed  this  little 


SHE  HUNTED  ABOUT  AMONG  THE  LEAVES  AND   BRANCHES  TILT- 
SHE  TOUND  A  LITTLE  SILVEU  KNOB."  — p.  76. 


THE   STORY   OF    SUNNY.  77 

knob,  and  a  minute  or  two  after  she  heard  a  clear 
tinkling  bell.  That  was  just  what  her  grandfather 
had  told  her  she  would  hear,  so  she  stood  quite  still 
and  waited.  In  a  little  while  she  seemed  to  hear  a 
sound  as  of  something  coming  along  the  passage,  and 
suddenly  the  top  part  of  the  door  —  at  least  it  was 
more  like  a  window  cut  in  the  door  —  opened,  and  a 
voice,  though  she  could  not  see  anybody,  called  out, 
'  Have  you  come  to  stay  ? '  This  too  was  what  her 
grandfather  had  told  her  she  would  hear,  so  she  knew 
what  to  say,  and  she  answered  'Yes.'  Then  the 
voice  said  again,  'At  what  price?'  and  Sunny  an- 
swered, 'Sunshine  for  the  forest.'  But  her  heart 
began  to  beat  faster  when  the  door  slowly  opened 
and  she  saw  that  she  must  enter  the  dark  passage. 
There  was  no  one  to  be  seen,  even  though  the  voice 
had  sounded  quite  near,  so  Sunny  just  walked  on, 
looking  about  her,  for  gradually  as  she  went  farther, 
either  her  eyes  grew  used  to  the  darkness,  or  a  slight 
light  began  to  come,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  saw 
before  her  a  very,  very  high  staircase.  It  went 
straight  up,  without  turnings  or  landings,  and  the 
steps  were  quite  white,  so  she  saw  them  plainly 
though  the  light  was  dim,  and  as  there  was  nowhere 
else  to  go,  she  just  went  straight  on.  I  can't  tell 
you  what  a  long  time  she  seemed  to  keep  going 
upstairs,  but  at  last  the  steps  stopped,  and  before  her 
she  saw  another  door.  It  wasn't  a  door  like  the  one 
down  below,  it  was  more  like  a  gate,  for  it  was  a 


78  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

sort  of  a  grating  that  you  could  see  through.  Sunny 
pressed  her  face  against  it  and  peeped  in.  She  saw 
a  large  dark  room,  with  a  rounded  roof  something 
like  a  church,  and  in  one  corner  a  very  old,  grim- 
looking  man  was  sitting.  He  had  a  very  long  beard, 
but  he  didn't  look  so  awfully  big  as  Sunny  had 
expected,  for  she  knew  he  must  be  the  giant.  He 
was  sitting  quite  still,  and  it  seemed  to  Sunny  that 
he  was  shivering.  Anyway  he  looked  very  old  and 
very  lonely  and  sad,  and  instead  of  feeling  fright- 
ened of  him  the  little  girl  felt  very  sorry  for  him. 
She  stood  there  quite  still,  but  though  she  didn't 
make  the  least  noise  he  found  out  she  was  there. 
He  waved  his  hand,  and  the  barred  door  opened  and 
Sunny  walked  in.  She  walked  right  up  to  the  giant 
and  made  him  a  curtsey.  Rather  to  her  surprise  he 
made  her  a  bow,  then  he  waved  his  hands  about  and 
moved  his  lips  as  if  he  were  speaking,  but  no  sound 
came,  and  Sunny  stared  at  him  in  surprise.  She 
began  to  wonder  if  he  was  deaf  and  dumb,  and  if  so 
how  could  she  explain  to  him  what  she  had  come  for  ? 

"4I  can't  understand  what  you  are  saying,  sir,' 
she  said  very  politely,  and  then,  to  her  still  greater 
surprise,  the  waving  of  his  hands  and  the  moving  of 
his  lips  seemed  to  succeed,  for  in  a  very  queer  deep 
voice  he  answered  her. 

"'What  do  you  want?  '  he  said.  4I  sent  my  voice 
downstairs  to  speak  to  you,  and  he  has  been  loitering 
on  the  way,  lazy  fellow,  all  this  time.  There  are  no 


THE   STOKY   OF   SUNNY.  79 

good  servants  to  be  had  now-a-days,  none.  I've  not 
had  one  worth  his  salt  since  I  sent  my  old  ones  back 
to  Ogreland  when  they  got  past  work.  What  do 
you  want  ? ' 

"' Sunshine  for  the  forest  people.' 

"  That  was  all  Sunny  said,  and  she  looked  at  the 
grim  old  giant  straight  in  the  face.  He  looked  at 
her,  and  went  on  shivering  and  rubbing  his  hands. 
Then  he  said,  with  a  frown, 

"'Why  should  they  have  sunshine?  I  can't  get 
it  myself,  since  I'm  too  old  to  get  up  to  the  top 
there.  Sunshine  indeed! '  and  then  he  suddenly 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  her  and  made  a  grab  at 
her  hair,  screaming  out,  'Why,  you've  got  sunshine! 
Come  here,  and  let  me  warm  my  hands.  Ugh !  that's 
the  first  time  I've  felt  a  little  less  chilly  these  hun- 
dred years,'  and  Sunny  stood  patiently  beside  him 
and  let  him  stroke  her  golden  hair  up  and  down,  and 
in  a  minute  or  two  she  said  quietly, 

"'Will  you  unfasten  the  door,  good  Mr.  Giant, 
and  let  the  poor  people  through  to  the  other  side  ? ' 

"  The  giant  still  kept  hold  of  her  hair.  '  It  would 
be  no  good  cutting  it  off  —  the  sunshine  would  go 
out  of  it, '  Sunny  heard  him  saying  to  himself.  So 
she  just  said  again  quietly,  'Will  you  unfasten  the 
door,  good  Mr.  Giant  ? ' 

"And  at  last  he  said,  'I'll  consider  about  it. 
Your  hair's  getting  cold.  Go  upstairs,'  and  he 
nodded  his  head  towards  a  door  in  the  corner  of  the 


80  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

room,  'go  upstairs  and  fetch  some  sunshine  for  me, 
and  come  down  again. ' 

"  But  Sunny  wouldn't  stir  till  she  had  got  some- 
thing out  of  him.  And  she  said  for  the  third  time, 

" '  Will  you  unfasten  the  door,  good  Mr.  Giant,  if 
I  go  upstairs  to  please  you  ? ' 

"  And  the  giant  gave  her  a  push,  and  said  to  her, 
'Get  off  with  you,  you  tiresome  child.  Yes,  I'll  open 
the  door  if  you'll  go  and  bathe  your  hair  well,  and 
then  come  down  to  warm  my  hands.' 

"  So  Sunny  went  upstairs.  This  stair  wasn't  like 
the  other.  It  was  a  turny,  screwy  stair  that  went 
round  and  round  itself,  for  you  see  it  was  near  the 
top  of  the  mountain  and  there  wasn't  so  much  room 
as  down  below.  Sunny  felt  rather  giddy  when  she 
got  to  the  top,  but  she  got  all  right  again  in  a 
minute  when  she  pushed  open  the  little  door  she 
found  there  and  came  out  into  the  sunlight.  It  was 
so  lovely,  and  remember,  she  hadn't  seen  sunshine, 
even  though  some  of  the  brightness  had  stayed  with 
her,  since  she  was  a  very  little  girl.  You  have  no 
idea  how  pretty  it  was  up  there,  not  gloomy  at  all, 
and  with  the  beautiful  warm  sunshine  pouring  down 
all  round.  Sunny  was  very  pleased  to  warm  herself 
in  it,  and  then  when  she  looked  down  over  the  side 
of  the  mountain  and  saw  the  dark  tops  of  the  forest 
trees,  she  was  still  more  pleased  to  think  that  soon 
her  poor  friends  would  have  a  chance  of  enjoying  it 
too.  And  when  she  thought  that  her  hair  had 


THE   STORY   OF   SUNNY.  81 

caught  enough  sunshine  to  please  the  giant  she 
called  down  through  the  screwy  staircase,  'Have  you 
opened  the  door,  Mr.  Giant  ?  '  And  when  the  giant 
said,  'Come  down  and  I'll  tell  you,'  she  answered, 
'No,  Mr.  Giant,  I  can't  come  till  you've  opened  the 
door. '  And  then  she  heard  him  grumbling  to  him- 
self, and  in  a  minute  she  heard  a  rattling  noise,  and 
she  knew  the  door  was  opened,  and  then  she  came 
down.  She  had  settled  with  her  grandfather  that  if 
she  didn't  come  straight  back,  he  would  send  some 
of  the  people  to  watch  for  the  door  being  opened,  so 
she  knew  it  would  be  all  right,  for  once  the  giant 
had  agreed  to  open  it,  he  couldn't  shut  it  again  — 
that  was  settled  somehow,  some  magic  way  I  sup- 
pose, the  story  didn't  say  how.  So  then  Sunny  came 
downstairs  again,  and  the  giant  stroked  her  hair  up 
and  down  till  his  poor  old  hands  were  quite  warm, 
and  he  grew  quite  pleased  and  good-natured.  But 
he  wouldn't  let  Sunny  go  away,  and  she  had  to  stay, 
you  see,  because  the  top-door,  the  one  like  a  gate, 
was  still  shut  up.  And  anyway  she  didn't  want  to 
be  unkind  to  the  giant.  She  promised  him  that  she 
would  come  back  to  see  him  every  day  if  he  liked  if 
only  he  would  let  her  go,  but  he  wouldn't,  so  she 
had  to  stay.  I  don't  know  how  long  she  stayed.  It 
was  a  long  time,  for  the  story  said  she  grew  thin 
and  white  with  being  shut  up  in  the  giant's  cave 
and  having  no  running  about.  It  was  worse  than 
the  forest.  The  only  thing  that  kept  her  alive  was 


82  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

the  sunshine  she  got  every  morning,  for  there  was 
always  sunshine  at  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and 
then,  too,  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  the  poor 
people  were  enjoying  it  too,  for  when  she  was  up  on 
the  top  she  could  hear  their  voices  down  below,  as 
they  came  to  the  door.  Day  by  day  she  heard  their 
voices  grow  merrier  and  brighter,  and  after  a  while 
she  could  even  hear  the  little  children  laughing  and 
shouting  with  glee.  And  Sunny  felt  that  she  didn't 
mind  for  herself,  she  was  so  glad  to  think  that  she 
had  done  some  good  to  her  poor  friends.  But  she 
got  paler  and  thinner  and  weaker  —  it  was  so  very 
tiring  to  stand  such  a  long  time  every  day  while  the 
giant  stroked  the  sunshine  out  of  her  golden  hair  to 
warm  his  withered  old  hands,  and  it  was  so  terribly 
dark  and  dull  and  cold  in  the  gloomy  cavern.  She 
would  hardly  have  known  how  the  days  went  or 
when  Avas  day  and  when  was  night,  but  for  the  giant 
sending  her  upstairs  every  morning.  But  one  morn- 
ing came  when  she  could  not  go ;  she  got  up  a  few 
steps,  and  then  her  strength  went  away  and  she 
seemed  to  get  half  asleep,  and  she  said  to  herself 
that  she  was  going  to  die,  and  she  did  not  know 
anything  more.  She  seemed  to  be  dreaming.  She 
fancied  the  giant  came  to  look  for  her,  and  that  his 
old  face  grew  sad  and  sorry  when  he  saw  her.  And 
then  she  thought  she  heard  him  say,  'Poor  little  girl, 
I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  her.  I  have  done  harm 
enough.  Sunny,  forgive  me.  The  giant  will  do 


THE   STORY   OF   SUNNY.  83 

you  and  your  people  no  more  harm.  His  day  is  over. ' 
Then  she  really  did  sleep,  for  a  long  time  I  fancy, 
for  when  she  woke  up  she  could  not  think  where  she 
was.  She  thought  at  first  she  was  on  the  top  of  the 
mountain,  it  seemed  so  beautifully  bright  and  warm. 
She  sat  up  a  little  and  looked  about  her,  and  she 
couldn't  think  where  she  was,  for  on  one  side  close 
to  her,  she  saw  the  dark  trees  of  the  forest  that  she 
knew  so  well,  and  on  the  other,  smiling  green  fields 
and  orchards  and  cottages  with  gardens  filled  with 
flowers,  just  the  sort  of  country  her  grandfather  had 
told  her  he  remembered  when  he  was  a  child  on  the 
other  side  of  the  great  hill.  It  was  just  as  if  the 
mountain  had  melted  away.  And,  just  fancy,  that 
tvas  what  had  happened!  For  in  a  little  while 
Sunny  heard  voices  coming  near  her,  all  talking 
eagerly.  It  was  the  people  of  the  forest  who  had 
found  out  what  had  come  to  pass,  and  they  were  all 
hurrying  to  look  for  Sunny,  for  they  were  terribly 
afraid  that  the  giant  had  taken  her  away  to  Ogreland 
with  the  mountain.  But  he  hadn't,  you  see!  And 
Sunny  and  all  the  forest  people  lived  all  their  lives 
as  happy  as  could  be  —  they  were  happier  even  than 
in  the  old  days  the  grandfather  and  grandmother 
remembered,  for  not  only  were  they  free  to  leave  the 
dark  forest  and  enjoy  the  sunlight  as  often  as  they 
liked,  but  the  sunshine  now  found  its  way  by  all 
the  chinks  and  crannies  among  the  branches  into 
the  very  forest  itself." 


84  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD.  . 

"And  did  they  never  hear  anything  more  of  the 
giant?"  asked  Percy. 

"No,"  said  Mabel,  "only  in  hot  summer  days 
sometimes,  when  the  sun  was  beating  down  too 
much  on  the  fields  and  gardens,  the  people  of  that 
country  used  to  notice  a  large  soft  gray  cloud  that 
often  came  between  them  and  the  sunshine,  and 
would  stay  there  till  the  great  heat  grew  less.  This 
cloud  seemed  always  the  same  shape,  and  somehow, 
Sunny,  remembering  her  vision  of  the  giant,  thought 
to  herself  that  the  cloud  was  perhaps  he,  and  that  he 
wanted  to  make  up  for  his  long  cruelty.  And  the 
children  of  the  forest  having  heard  her  story  used  to 
laugh  when  they  saw  the  cloud,  and  say  to  each 
other,  'See,  there  is  the  giant  warming  his  hands.' 
But  Sunny  would  say  softly  in  a  whisper,  'Thank 
you,  Mr.  Giant.' 

"  And  though  it  is  a  very,  very  long  time  since  all 
that  happened,  it  has  never  been  quite  forgotten, 
and  the  people  of  that  country  are  noted  for  their 
healthy  happy  faces,  and  the  little  children  for  their 
rosy  cheeks  and  golden  hair." 

Mabel  stopped. 

"It  is  a  very  pretty  story,"  said  Percy.  "Are 
there  more  like  it  in  the  book  where  you  read  it?" 

Mabel  was  just  going  to  answer,  when  her  atten- 
tion was  caught  by  Ted. 

"I  do  believe  he's  asleep,"  she  said  softly,  for  Ted 
had  curled  himself  up  like  a  dormouse  in  his  little 


THE   STOEY   OF   SUNNY.  85 

nest  at  her  side.  But  just  then  the  two-legged 
dormouse  gave  a  funny  chuckle,  which  showed  that 
whether  he  had  been  asleep  or  not,  he  certainly  was 
so  no  longer. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at,  Teddy?"  said  Percy.' 
"I  were  just  sinking,"  said  Ted,  "what  a  silly 
boy  Ted  were  to  be  afraid  of  mountains  —  Ted  would 
like  to  go  up  to  the  very,  very  top,"  he  went  on 
valorously.  "  Ted  wouldn't  mind  a  bit  —  not, "  with 
a  prudent  reservation,  "not  if  thoo  and  Mabel  was 
wif  me." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LITTLE  NARCISSA. 

"  But,  I  think,  of  all  new-comers, 
Little  children  are  the  best." 

FROM  this  time,  I  think,  Ted  lost  his  fear  of 
mountains  and  giants.  It  was  not  till  a  long  time 
afterwards  that  he  explained  to  his  mother  exactly 
how  it  had  been,  and  by  that  time  he  was  of  course 
quite  big  enough  to  understand  that  Mr.  Brand  had 
only  been  joking.  But  still  he  did* not  much  care 
about  seeing  that  gentleman  again.  He  generally 
managed  to  be  out  of  the  way  when  he  saw  the 
dog -cart  with  the  gray  horse  driving  in  at  the  gate, 
and  just  once,  when  he  would  not  have  had  time  to 
run  off  without  actual  rudeness,  which  little  Ted 
never  was  guilty  of,  he  only  waited  to  shake  hands 
and  say  "Quite  well,  thank  thoo,"  before  he  dis- 
appeared in  so  unaccountable  a  manner  that  he  could 
not  be  found  as  long  as  Mr.  Brand's  visit  lasted. 

It  was  a  good  deal  thanks  to  Mabel's  story  that 
he  grew  to  like  his  old  friend  the  mountain  again. 
But  partly  too,  I  dare  say,  he  forgot  his  fears  on 
account  of  several  very  interesting  things  that  hap- 
pened about  this  time.  It  was  a  great  sorrow  to 
him  when  Percy  had  to  go  back  to  school  —  that  was 


LITTLE   NAKCISSA.  87 

one  of  little  Ted's  lasting  or  rather  returning  sor- 
rows, all  through  his  childhood.  Only,  like  many 
things  in  our  lives,  if  we  learn  to  look  at  them  in 
the  right  way,  it  was  certainly  a  trouble  with  a 
bright  side  to  it,  a  cloud  with  a  silver  lining  —  a 
silver  lining  which  shone  indeed  all  the  brighter 
for  the  gray  outside  —  for  was  there  not  the  delight, 
the  delicious  delight,  of  the  coming  back  again,  the 
showing  all  the  changes  in  the  garden  since  Percy 
was  last  there,  the  new  toys  and  other  little  presents 
that  Ted  had  received,  and  listening  to  Percy's 
thrilling  accounts  of  school-life,  the  relating  his  own 
adventures  ? 

Still  there  were  times,  especially  now  that  Ted 
was  really  growing  very  sensible,  that  he  wished  for 
some  other  companion  in  his  simple  daily  life,  some 
one  who,  like  the  little  fishes,  did  not  have  to  go  to 
school.  And  now  and  then,  when,  in  his  rare  expe- 
ditions to  the  sea-side  town  not  far  off,  he  saw  little 
groups  of  brothers  and  sisters  trotting  along  together, 
or  when  in  the  stories  his  mother  read  to  him  he 
heard  of  happy  nursery  parties,  Ted  used  to  wish  he 
had  a  little  "  bruvver  or  sister,  even  a  baby  one  would 
be  very  nice."  For  deep  down  in  his  loving  heart 
there  was  already  the  true  manly  spirit,  the  longing 
to  have  something  to  take  care  of  and  protect;  some- 
thing tinier  and  more  tender  even  than  wee  Ted 
himself. 

And  to  make  his  child-life  complete  this  pretty 


88 

thing  came  to  him.  With  the  autumn  days,  just 
when  Ted  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  sad  at  the 
summer  brightness  going  away,  and  his  garden  work 
had  come  to  be  chiefly  helping  old  David  to  sweep 
up  the  fast-falling  leaves,  there  came  to  Ted  a  dear 
little  baby  sister.  She  was  the  dearest  little  thing 
—  bright-eyed  and  merry,  and  looking  as  if  she  was 
ready  for  all  sorts  of  fun.  She  was  stronger  than 
Ted  had  been,  and  to  tell  the  truth  I  think  I  must 
say  prettier.  For  sweet  and  fair  and  dear  as  was 
Ted's  face  both  in  baby-  and  boy-hood,  he  was  not 
what  one  would  call  pretty.  Not  the  sort  of  child 
whose  proud  nurse  comes  home  with  wonderful  stories 
of  ladies  stopping  her  in  the  street  to  ask  whose 
beautiful  baby  he  was  —  not  a  splendidly  vigorous, 
stalwart  little  man  like  a  small  eight-years-old  of 
my  acquaintance  whose  mother  was  lately  afraid  to 
walk  about  the  streets  of  Berlin  with  him  lest  the 
old  Emperor,  as  he  sometimes  does,  should  want  to 
have  him  to  make  an  officer  of!  No;  Ted,  though 
lithe  and  active  as  a  squirrel,  merry  as  a  cricket, 
was  not  a  "showy"  child.  He  was  just  our  own 
dear  little  Ted,  our  happy-hearted  Christmas  child. 
But  I  suppose  there  never  was  in  this  world  any 
one  so  happy  but  that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  be 
happier.  And  this  "more  happiness"  came  to  Ted 
in  the  shape  of  his  baby  sister,  Narcissa.  Boys  who 
despise  sisters,  "girls"  in  any  shape,  big  or  little, 
don't  know  what  a  great  deal  they  lose.  Ted  was 


BABY  SHOWED,  OK  TED  thought  SHE  DID,  A  QUITE  EXTRAORDI- 
NARY LOVE  FOR  THE  BOUQUETS  HER  LITTLE  BROTHER  ARRANGED 
FOR  HER. —  p.  89. 


LITTLE   NARCISSA.  89 

still  a  good  way  off  the  ubig  boy  "  stage,  and  indeed 
I  don't  think  anything  could  have  made  it  possible 
for  him  to  look  at  things  as  too  many  big  boys  do. 
By  the  time  he  reached  schoolboy-hood,  Narcissa  was 
a  dainty  maiden  of  five  or  six,  and  quite  able  to 
stand  up  for  herself  in  a  little  queenly  way,  even 
had  her  brother  been  less  tender  and  devoted.  And 
of  the  years  between,  though  I  would  like  to  tell  you 
something,  I  cannot  tell  you  half  nor  a  quarter. 
They  were  happy  sunny  years,  though  not  quite  with- 
out clouds  of  course.  And  the  first  summer  of  little 
Cissy's  life  was  a  sort  of  bright  opening  to  them. 

It  was  again  a  very  beautiful  summer.  The  chil- 
dren almost  lived  out-of-doors.  Poor  nurse  found  it 
difficult  to  get  the  work  in  the  house  that  fell  to  her 
share  finished  in  the  morning  before  Ted  was  tug- 
ging at  her  to  "  turn  out  into  the  garden,  baby  does 
so  want  to  turn;"  and  baby  soon  learnt  to  clap  her 
hands  and  chuckle  with  glee  when  her  little  hat  was 
tied  on  and  she  was  carried  downstairs  to  her  per- 
ambulator waiting  at  the  door.  And  there  was  new 
interest  for  Ted  in  hunting  for  the  loveliest  wild 
flowers  he  could  find,  as  baby  showed,  or  Ted  thought 
she  did,  a  quite  extraordinary  love  for  the  bouquets 
her  little  brother  arranged  for  her. 

"  Her  knows  kite  well  which  is  the  prettiest  ones, 
doesn't  her,  nurse?"  he  said  one  day  when  they 
were  all  three  —  all  four  rather,  for  of  course  Chevie 
was  one  of  the  group  —  established  in  their  favourite 


90  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

place  under  the  shade  of  a  great  tree,  whose  waving 
branches  little  Cissy  loved  so  much  that  she  would 
cry  when  nurse  wheeled  her  away  from  it.  "  I  think 
baby  knows  lots,  though  she  can't  speak;  "  and  baby, 
pleased  at  his  evidently  talking  of  her,  burst  into  a 
funny  crowing  laugh,  which  seemed  exactly  as  if 
she  knew  and  approved  of  what  he  was  saying. 

"Baby's  a  darling,"  said  nurse. 

"How  soon  will  her  learn  to  speak?"  Ted  in- 
quired gravely. 

"  Not  just  yet.  She  hasn't  got  any  teeth.  Nobody 
can  speak  without  teeth,"  said  nurse. 

"I  hope,"  said  Ted,  more  gravely  still,  "I  hope 
Dod  hasn't  forgotten  them." 

Nurse  turned  away  to  hide  a  smile. 

"No  fear,  Master  Ted,"  she  said  in  a  minute. 
"She'll  have  nice  little  teeth  bye-and-bye,  you'll  see. 
They'll  be  wee  tiny  white  specks  at  first,  and  then 
they'll  grow  quite  big  and  strong  enough  to  bite 
with.  That's  how  your  teeth  came.  Not  all  of  a 
sudden,  you  see." 

"Ses,"  said  Ted.  "Nothing  comes  all  in  one 
sudden.  The  f 'owers  is  weeny,  weeny  buds  at  first, 
and  then  they  gets  big.  Nurse,  I'm  going  to  take 
my  cart  to  get  a  lot  of  daisies  down  by  the  brook  for 
baby.  She  likes  to  roll  zem  in  her  hands,"  and  off 
he  set  with  his  little  blue  cart  and  white  horse,  his 
best  beloved  possession,  and  which  had  done  good 
service  in  its  time,  to  fill  it  with  flowers  for  Cissy. 


LITTLE   NARCISSA.  91 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  he  was  manfully  dragging 
the  cart  up  the  path  again,  gee-upping  and  gee- 
whoing  at  the  horse,  which  was  supposed  to  find  the 
daisy  heads  a  heavy  load  uphill,  his  mother  came  out 
to  the  garden. 

"Ted,  dear,"  she  said,  "your  father  is  going  to 

drive  me  to  A .  It  is  a  long  time  since  you  were 

there,  and  I  should  like  to  have  my  little  boy  to  go 
about  with  me  while  your  papa  is  busy.  I  have  a 
good  deal  of  shopping  to  do.  Would  you  like  to  go 
with  me  ?  " 

Ted  gave  a  shout  of  pleasure.  Then  suddenly 
his  glance  fell  on  the  little  sister  still  in  her  peram- 
bulator under  the  big  tree,  and  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"I  would  like  dedfully  to  go,"  he  said,  "but  poor 
Cissy.  I  is  so  afraid  Cissy  will  cry  if  I  go." 

He  lifted  his  wistful  little  face  to  his  mother's 
with  an  expression  that  went  to  her  heart. 

"Dear  Ted,"  she  said;  "you  are  a  good,  kind, 
little  boy.  But  don't  make  yourself  unhappy  about 
Cissy.  She  is  too  little  to  cry  for  your  going  away, 
though  she  will  laugh  to  see  you  come  back." 

Ted's  face  cleared,  but  suddenly  a  rosy  colour 
spread  over  it. 

"Muzzer,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  tugging  gently 
at  her  dress  to  make  her  stoop  down,  "  muzzer,  I  sink 
I  were  going  to  cry  not  all  for  poor  baby  being  sorry, 
but  part  'cos  I  did  so  want  to  go." 


92  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

Mother  understood  his  simple  confession. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  dare  say  you  did,  and  it 
is  right  of  you  to  tell  me.  My  good  little  Ted,"  she 
could  not  resist  adding  again,  and  again  little  Ted's 
face  grew  red,  but  this  time  with  pleasure  at  mother's 
praise. 

Baby  bore  the  announcement,  which  he  considered 
it  his  duty  to  make  to  her  with  great  formality,  very 
philosophically.  Less  philosophically  did  she  take 
nurse's  wheeling  her  away  from  under  her  beloved 
tree  with  its  fluttering  branches,  towards  the  house, 
where  nurse  had  to  go  to  prepare  Ted  for  his 
expedition.  In  fact,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  so  little 
did  the  young  lady  realise  what  was  expected  of  her, 
that  she  burst  into  a  loud  roar,  which  was  quite  too 
much  for  Ted's  feelings. 

"Dear  baby,  sweet  baby,"  he  cried,  "thoo  mustn't 
be  tooked  away  from  thoo's  tree.  I'll  ask  muzzer  to 
deck  me,  nurse,"  he  went  on  eagerly,  for  his  mother 
had  returned  to  the  house,  "  or  I  can  nearly  kite  well 
deck  myself.  I'll  call  thoo  if  I  can't  find  my  things. 
I'll  run  and  ask  muzzer,"  and  off  he  went,  so  eager 
to  give  no  trouble,  so  ready  and  helpful  that  nurse 
thought  it  best  to  let  him  have  his  way,  and  to 
devote  her  attention  to  the  discomposed  Miss  Baby. 

Ted  did  not  find  his  mother  quite  so  quickly  as  he 
expected,  though  he  peeped  into  the  drawing-room 
and  called  her  by  name  as  he  passed  her  own  room 
upstairs,  on  his  way  to  the  nursery.  The  fact  was 


LITTLE  NARCISSA.  93 

that  mother  was  in  the  kitchen  consulting  with  cook 
as  to  the  groceries  required  to  be  ordered,  and  it 
never  came  into  Ted's  head  to  look  for  her  there  at 
this  time  of  day.  So  he  went  straight  on  to  the 
nursery,  and  managing  with  a  good  deal  of  tugging 
and  pulling  and  coaxing  to  open  his  drawer  in  the 
chest,  he  got  out  his  best  little  coat  and  hat  and 
prepared  to  don  them.  But  first  he  looked  at  his 
hands,  which  were  none  the  whiter  for  their  recent 
ravages  among  the  daisies. 

"  Zem's  very  dirty, "  he  said  to  himself ;  "  zem  must 
be  washed." 

There  was  water  in  the  jug,  but  Ted's  ambition 
was  aroused,  and  great  things  were  to  be  expected  of 
a  little  boy  who  was  big  enough  to  "deck  himself," 
as  he  would  have  described  the  process. 

"Ses,  zem's  very  dirty,"  he  repeated,  contemplat- 
ing the  two  sunburnt  little  paws  in  question.  "  Zem 
should  have  hot  water.  Hot  water  makes  zem  ze 
most  clean." 

He  glanced  round,  the  hot  water  was  not  far  to 
seek,  for,  though  it  was  June,  the  weather  was  not 
very  warm,  and  nurse  generally  kept  a  small  fire 
burning  in  the  day-nursery.  And  beside  the  fire, 
temptingly  beside  the  fire,  stood  the  kettle,  into 
which  Ted  peeping,  satisfied  himself  that  there  was 
water  enough  for  his  purpose.  He  would  hardly 
have  had  patience  to  fetch  it  had  it  not  been  there, 
so  eager  was  he  for  the  delights  of  putting  it  on  to 


94  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILp. 

boil.  And,  wonderful  to  say,  he  managed  it ;  he  got 
the  kettle,  heavy  for  him  to  lift,  as  you  can  imagine, 
safely  on  to  the  fire,  and  then,  with  immense  satis- 
faction, sat  down  in  front  of  it  to  watch  the  result. 
There  was  very  little  water  in  the  kettle,  but,  though 
Ted  did  not  think  about  that,  it  was  all  the  less 
trying  for  his  patience.  And  I  hardly  think  either, 
that  the  water  could  have  been  quite  cold  in  the  first 
place,  or  else  the  fairies  came  down  the  chimney  and 
blew  up  the  fire  with  their  invisible  bellows  to  help 
little  Ted,  for  certainly  the  kettle  began  to  boil 
amazingly  soon  —  first  it  simmered  gently  and  then 
it  began  to  sing  more  loudly,  and  at  last  what  Ted 
called  "  moke  "  began  to  come  out  of  the  spout,  and 
he  knew  that  the  kettle  was  boiling. 

Ted  was  so  used  to  hear  nurse  talking  about  the 
kettle  "  boiling  "  for  tea,  that  it  never  came  into  his 
head  that  it  was  not  necessary  to  have  "boiling" 
water  to  wash  his  poor  little  hands.  I  don't  indeed 
know  what  might  not  have  happened  to  the  whole  of 
his  poor  little  body  had  not  his  mother  at  that 
moment  come  into  the  room.  A  queer  sight  met  her 
eyes  —  there  was  Ted,  more  than  half  undressed, 
barefooted  and  red-faced,  in  the  act  of  lifting  off  the 
steaming  kettle,  round  the  handle  of  which,  with 
wonderful  precaution,  he  had  wrapped  his  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

Ted's  mother  kept  her  presence  of  mind.  She  did 
not  speak  till  the  kettle  was  safely  landed  on  the 


LITTLE  NARCISSA.  95 

floor,  and  Ted,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  looked  up  and 
saw  her  at  the  door. 

"I  is  decking  myself,  muzzer,"  he  said  with  a 
pleased  smile,  and  a  charming  air  of  importance. 
"Poor  baby  cried,  so  I  told  nurse  I  would  deck 
myself,  and  nurse  didn't  mind." 

"Didn't  she?"  said  his  mother,  rather  surprised. 

"  Oh,  she  thoughtened  p'raps  I'd  find  thoo,  I  amem- 
ber,"  Ted  continued,  correcting  himself. 

"But  did  nurse  know  you  were  going  to  boil 
water?"  said  his  mother. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Ted,  "it  were  only  that  my  hands 
is  so  dirty.  Zem  needs  hot  water  to  make  zem 
clean." 

"Hot  water,  but  not  boiling,"  said  his  mother; 
"my  dear  little  boy,  do  you  know  you  might  have 
scalded  yourself  dreadfully?" 

"I  put  my  hankerwick  not  to  burn  my  hands," 
said  Ted,  rather  disconsolately. 

"Yes,  dear.  I  know  you  meant  it  for  the  best, 
but  just  think  if  you  had  dropped  the  kettle  and 
burnt  yourself.  And  nurse  has  always  told  you  not 
to  play  with  fire  or  hot  water." 

"Ses,"  said  Ted,  "but  I  weren't  playing.  I  were 
going  to  wash  my  hands  to  be  nice  to  go  out  wif 
thoo,"  and  his  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears.  But  they 
were,  soon  wiped  away,  and  when  his  mother  had 
with  the  help  of  some  of  the  hot  water  made  face  and 
hands  as  clean  as  could  be,  and  smoothed  the  tangled 


96  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

curls  and  fastened  the  best  little  coat,  Ted  looked 
very  "nice  "  indeed,  I  can  assure  you,  for  his  drive 
to  A . 

It  was  a  very  happy  drive.  Perched  safely  be- 
tween his  father  and  mother,  Ted  was  as  proud  as  a 
king.  It  was  all  so  pretty,  the  driving  through  the 
shady  lanes,  where  the  honeysuckle  and  wild-roses 
were  just  beginning  to  show  some  tints  of  colour, 
the  peeps  now  and  then  of  the  sea  below  in  its  blue 
beauty,  the  glancing  up  sometimes  at  the  mountain 
top,  Ted's  old  friend,  along  whose  sides  they  were 
actually  travelling  —  it  was  all  delightful.  And 
when  they  drew  near  the  little  town,  and  the  houses 
began  to  stand  closer,  till  at  last  they  came  in  rows 
and  streets,  and  the  old  mare's  hoofs  clattered  over 
the  stones  of  the  market-place  so  that  the  people  in 
the  sleepy  little  place  came  out  to  see  who  was  com- 
ing, Ted's  excitement  knew  no  bounds.  He  had 

almost  forgotten  A ,  it  was  so  long  since  he  had 

been  there  —  the  sights  of  the  shops  and  what  ap- 
peared to  him  their  wonderful  contents,  the  sight 
even  of  so  many  people  and  children  walking  about, 
was  almost  too  much  for  the  little  country  child ;  it 
seemed  to  take  his  breath  away. 

He  recovered  his  composure,  however,  when  he 
found  himself  trotting  about  the  streets  with  his 
mother.  She  had  several  shops  to  go  to,  each,  to 
Ted,  more  interesting  than  the  other.  There  was 
the  ironmonger's  to  visit,  for  cook  had  begged  for  a 


LITTLE   NARCISSA.         '  97 

new  preserving  pan  and  the  nursery  tea-pot  handle 
was  broken :  there  were  various  milk  jugs  and  plates 
to  replace  at  the  china  shop ;  brown  holland  to  get  at 
the  draper's  for  Ted's  summer  blouses.  At  two  or 
three  of  the  shops  his  mother,  being  a  regular  cus- 
tomer and  having  an  account  with  them,  did  not  pay, 
and  among  these  was  the  grocer's,  where  she  had 
rather  a  long  list  of  things  needed  for  the  store- 
closet,  and  while  she  was  explaining  about  them  all 
to  the  white-aproned  young  man  behind  the  counter, 
Ted  marched  about  the  shop  on  a  voyage  of  discovery 
on  his  own  account.  There  were  so  many  interest- 
ing things  —  barrels  of  sugar,  white,  brown,  and 
darker  brown  still,  neat  piles  of  raisins  and  currants, 
closely  fastened  bottles  of  French  plums,  and  rows 
of  paper-covered  tin  boxes  which  Ted  knew  contained 
biscuits. 

"What  a  kind  man,"  he  said  to  himself,  "to  give 
muzzer  all  she  wants."  as  one  after  another  of  his 
mother's  requests  was  attended  to.  "  Why,  he  lets 
muzzer  take  whatever  her  likes !  "  he  added,  as  hav- 
ing brought  his  wanderings  to  a  close  for  a  minute, 
he  stood  beside  her  and  saw  her  lifting  a  little 
square  of  honey  soap  out  of  a  box  which  the  grocer 
presented  to  her  for  examination,  and,  greatly  im- 
pressed, Ted  set  off  again  on  another  ramble.  Doubt- 
less he  too  might  take  whatever  he  liked,  and  as  the 
thought  occurred  to  him  he  pulled  up  before  another 
barrel  filled  with  lumps,  little  and  big,  of  half  clear, 


98  A    CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

whitey-looking  stuff,  something  like  very  coarse  lump 
sugar,  only  not  so  white,  and  more  transparent.  Ted 
knew  what  it  was.  It  was  soda,  washing  soda  I 
believe  it  is  usually  called.  Ted  was,  as  I  have 
said,  very  wide-awake  about  all  household  matters, 
for  he  always  used  his  eyes,  and  very  often  —  indeed 
rather  oftener  than  was  sometimes  pleasant  for  the 
people  about  him  if  they  wanted  to  be  quiet  —  his 
tongue  too,  for  he  was  great  at  asking  questions. 

"Soda's  very  useful,"  Ted  reflected;  "nurse  says 
it  makes  things  come  cleaner." 

Just  then  his  mother  called  him. 

"Ted,  dear,"  she  said,  "I'm  going." 

Ted  started  and  ran  after  her,  but  just  as  he  did 
so,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  a  lump  of  soda 
out  of  the  barrel.  He  did  it  quite  openly,  he  didn't 
mind  in  the  very  least  if  the  shopman  saw  him  — 
like  the  daisies  in  the  field,  so  he  thought,  the  soda 
and  the  sugar  and  the  French  plums  and  everything 
were  there  for  him  or  for  any  one  to  help  themselves 
to  as  they  liked.  But  Ted  was  not  greedy  —  he  was 
far  better  pleased  to  get  something  "useful"  for 
mother  than  anything  for  himself.  He  would  have 
asked  her  what  he  had  better  take,  if  he  had  had  time 
—  he  would  have  stopped  to  say  "  Thank  you  "  to  the 
grocer  had  he  not  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  run  after 
his  mother. 

They  walked  quickly  down  the  street.  Ted's 
mother  was  a  little  absent-minded  for  the  moment  — 


LITTLE   NAKCISSA.  99 

she  was  thinking  of  what  she  had  ordered,  and 
hoping  she  had  forgotten  nothing.  And  holding  her 
little  boy  by  the  one  hand  she  did  not  notice  the 
queer  thing  he  was  holding  in  the  other.  Suddenly 
she  stopped  before  a  boot  and  shoe  shop. 

" I  must  get  baby  a  pair  of  shoes,"  she  said.  "  She 
is  such  a  little  kicker,  she  has  the  toes  of  her  cloth 
ones  out  in  no  time.  We  must  get  her  a  pair  of 
leather  ones  I  think,  Ted." 

"Ses,  I  sink  so,  "said  Ted. 

So  his  mother  went  into  the  shop  and  asked  the 
man  to  show  her  some  little  leather  shoes.  Ted 
looked  on  with  great  interest,  but  when  the  shoes 
were  spread  out  on  the  counter  and  he  saw  that  they 
were  all  black,  he  seemed  rather  disappointed. 

"Muzzer,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  tugging  at  his 
mother's  skirts,  "  I  saw  such  bootly  boo  boots  in  the 
man's  winder." 

His  mother  smiled. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  replied,  "they're  very  pretty,  but 
they  wouldn't  last  so  long,  and  I  suspect  they  cost 
much  more." 

Ted  looked  puzzled. 

"What  does  thoo  mean?"  he  said,  but  before  his 
mother  had  time  to  explain,  the  active  shopman  had 
reached  down  the  "bootly"  boots  and  held  them 
forward  temptingly. 

"  They're  certainly  very  pretty,"  said  baby's  mother, 
who,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  nearly  as  much  inclined 


100  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

for  the  blue  boots  as  Ted  himself.     "What  is  the 
price  of  them  ?  " 

"Three  and  sixpence,  ma'am,"  replied  the  man. 

"And   the   black   ones,  the   little  black  shoes,  I 

999 

"Two  and  six,"  replied  the  man. 

"A  shilling  difference,  you  see,  Ted,"  said  his 
mother.  But  Ted  only  looked  puzzled,  and  his 
mother,  occupied  with  the  boots,  did  not  particularly 
notice  him. 

"I  think,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  think  I  will  take 
both.  But  as  the  blue  boots  will  be  best  ones  for  a 
good  while,  give  me  them  half  a  size  larger  than  the 
little  black  shoes." 

The  shopman  proceeded  to  wrap  them  up  in  paper 
and  handed  them  to  Ted's  mother,  who  took  out  her 
purse  and  paid  the  money.  The  man  thanked  her,  and, 
followed  by  her  little  boy,  Ted's  mother  left  the  shop. 

Ted  walked  on  silently,  a  very  unusual  state  of 
things.  He  was  trying  to  find  out  how  to  express 
what  he  wanted  to  ask,  and  the  ideas  in  his  head 
were  so  new  and  strange  that  he  could  not  fit  them 
with  words  all  at  once.  His  mother  turned  round  to 
him. 

"Would  you  like  to  carry  the  parcel  of  baby's 
shoes  for  her?"  she  said. 

"Oh  ses,"  said  Ted,  holding  out  his  left  hand. 
But  as  his  mother  was  giving  him  the  parcel  she 
noticed  that  his  right  hand  was  already  engaged. 


LITTLE   NARCISSA.  101 

"Why,  what  have  you  got  there?"  she  asked,  ua 
stone  ?  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  No,  it's  not  a  stone 
—  why,  can  it  be  a  lump  of  soda?" 

"Ses,"  returned  Ted  with  the  greatest  composure, 
"  it  are  a  lump  of  soda.  I  thought  it  would  be  very 
suseful  for  thoo,  so  I  took  it  out  of  that  nice  man's 
shop." 

"My  dear  little  boy!  "  exclaimed  his  mother,  look- 
ing I  don't  know  how.  She  was  rather  startled,  but 
she  could  not  help  being  amused  too,  only  she 
thought  it  better  not  to  show  Ted  that  she  was 
amused.  "My  dear  little  boy,"  she  said  again,  "do 
you  not  understand  ?  The  things  in  the  shop  belong 
to  the  man  —  they  are  his,  not  ours." 

"Ses,"  said  Ted.  "I  know.  But  he  lets  thoo 
take  them.  Thoo  took  soap  and  somesing  else,  and 
he  said  he'd  send  them  home  for  thoo." 

"Yes,  dear,  so  he  did,"  said  his  mother.  "But  I 
pay  him  for  them.  You  didn't  see  me  paying  him, 
because  I  don't  pay  him  every  time.  He  puts  down 
all  I  get  in  a  book,  and  then  he  counts  up  how  much 
it  is  every  month,  and  then  I  send  him  the  money. 
In  some  shops  I  pay  as  soon  as  I  get  the  things. 
You  saw  me  pay  the  shoemaker  for  little  Cissy's 
boots  and  shoes." 

"Ses,"  said  Ted,  "I  saw  thoo  take  money  out  of 
thoo's  purse,  but  I  didn't  understand.  I  thought  all 
those  kind  men  kept  nice  things  for  us  to  get  when- 
ever we  wanted." 


102  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

"But  what  did  you  think  money  was  for,  little 
Ted?  You  have  often  seen  money,  shillings  and 
sixpences  and  pennies?  What  did  you  think  was 
the  use  of  it?" 

"I  thought,"  said  Ted  innocently,  "I  thought 
moneys  was  for  giving  to  poor  peoples." 

His  mother  could  hardly  resist  stooping  down  in 
the  street  to  kiss  him.  But  she  knew  it  was  better 
not.  Ted  must  be  made  to  understand  that  in  his 
innocence  he  had  done  a  wrong  thing,  and  the  lesson 
of  to-day  must  be  made  a  plain  and  lasting  one. 

"  What  would  poor  people  do  with  money  if  they 
could  get  all  the  things  they  wanted  out  of  the  shops 
for  nothing?"  she  said  quietly. 

Ted  considered  a  moment.  Then  he  looked  up 
brightly. 

" In  course !  "  he  said.     "  I  never  thought  of  that." 

"And  don't  you  see,  dear  Ted,  that  it  would  be 
wrong  to  take  things  out  of  a  shop  without  paying 
for  them  ?  They  belong  to  the  man  of  the  shop  —  it 
would  be  just  like  some  one  coming  to  our  house  and 
taking  away  your  father's  coat  or  my  bonnet,  or  your 
little  blue  cart  that  you  like  so  much,  or  —  " 

"Or  Cissy's  bootly  boo  boots,"  suggested  Ted, 
clutching  hold  more  tightly  of  the  parcel,  as  if  he 
thought  the  imaginary  thief  might  be  at  hand. 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother,  "or  Cissy's  new  boots, 
which  are  mine  now  because  I  paid  money  for  them 
to  the  man." 


LITTLE   NARCISSA.  103 

"Ses,"  said  Ted.  Then  a  very  thoughtful  expres- 
sion came  into  his  face.  "Muzzer,"  he  said,  "this 
soda  was  that  man's  —  sail  I  take  it  back  to  him 
and  tell  him  I  didn't  understand?" 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother.  "I  do  think  it  is  the 
best  thing  to  do.  Shall  we  go  at  once  ?  It  is  only 
just  round  the  corner  to  his  shop." 

She  said  this  thinking  that  little  Ted  would  find 
it  easier  to  do  it  at  once,  for  she  was  sorry  for  her 
little  boy  having  to  explain  to  a  stranger  the  queer 
mistake  he  had  made,  though  she  felt  it  was  right 
that  it  should  be  done.  "Shall  we  go  at  once?" 
she  repeated,  looking  rather  anxiously  at  the  small 
figure  beside  her. 

"Ses,"  said  Ted,  and  rather  to  her  surprise  his 
tone  was  quite  bright  and  cheery.  So  they  turned 
back  and  walked  down  the  street  till  they  came  to 
the  corner  near  which  was  the  grocer's  shop. 

Ted's  mother  had  taken  the  parcel  of  the  little 
boots  from  him  and  held  him  by  the  hand,  to  give 
him  courage  as  it  were.  But  he  marched  on  quite 
steadily  without  the  least  flinching  or  dragging  back, 
and  when  they  reached  the  shop  it  was  he  who  went 
in  first.  He  walked  straight  up  to  the  counter  and 
held  out  the  lump  of  soda  to  the  shopman. 

"Please,  man,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  know  I  should 
pay  money  for  this.  I  didn't  understand  till  muzzer 
told  me,  and  so  I've  brought  it  back." 

The  grocer  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  but  with  a 


104  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

smile  on  his  face,  for  he  was  a  kind  man,  with  little 
boys  and  girls  of  his  own.  But  before  he  said  any- 
thing, Ted's  mother  came  forward  to  explain  that  it 
was  almost  the  first  time  her  little  boy  had  been  in 
a  shop;  he  had  not  before  understood  what  buying 
and  selling  meant,  but  now  that  she  had  explained  it 
to  him,  she  thought  it  right  for  him  himself  to  bring 
back  the  lump  of  soda. 

"And  indeed  it  was  his  own  wish  to  do  so,"  she 
added. 

The  "grocer  thanked  her.  It  was  not  of  the  least 
consequence  to  him  of  course  he  said,  but  still  he 
was  a  sensible  man  and  he  respected  Ted's  mother 
for  what  she  had  done.  And  then,  half  afraid  that 
her  little  boy's  self-control  would  not  last  much 
longer,  she  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  bidding  the 
shopman  good-day  they  left  the  shop.  As  they  came 
out  into  the  street  again  she  looked  down  at  Ted. 
To  her  surprise  his  little  face  was  quite  bright  and 
happy. 

"He  were  a  kind  man,"  said  Ted;  "he  wasn't 
vexed  with  Ted.  He  knew  I  didn't  understand." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  his  mother,  pleased  to  see  the 
simple  straightforward  way  in  which  Ted  had  taken 
the  lesson;  "but  now,  Ted,  you  do  understand,  and 
you  would  never  again  touch  anything  in  a  shop, 
would  you  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  muzzer,  in  course  not, "said  Ted,  his  face 
flushing  a  little.  "Ted  would  never  take  nothing 


LITTLE   NAECISSA.  105 

that  wasn't  his —  never  ;  thoo  knows  that,  muzzer?" 
he  added  anxiously. 

"Yes,  my   dear   little   boy,"    and   this    time   his 
mother  did  stoop  down  and  kiss  him  in  the  street. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GETTING   BIG. 

"  The  children  think  they'll  climb  a  tree." 

IT  was  a  very  happy  little  Ted  that  trotted  up- 
stairs to  the  nursery  with  the  "bootly  boo  boots" 
and  the  more  modest  little  black  shoes  for  tiny 
Narcissa. 

"  See  what  Ted  has  brought  thoo,"  he  said,  kissing 
his  baby  sister  with  the  pretty  tenderness  he  always 
showed  her,  " and  see  what  muzzer  has  gave  me"  he 
went  on,  turning  to  nurse  with  another  parcel.  In 
his  excitement  he  didn't  know  which  to  unfasten 
first,  and  baby  had  got  hold  of  one  of  the  black 
shoes,  fortunately  not  the  blue  ones,  and  was  suck- 
ing it  vigorously  before  Ted  and  nurse  saw  what  she 
was  doing. 

"  Isn't  she  pleased?  "  said  Ted,  delightedly.  Baby 
must  be  very  pleased  with  her  new  possessions,  to  try 
to  eat  them,  he  thought.  And  then  he  had  time  to 
examine  and  admire  his  own  present.  It  was  a 
delightful  one  —  a  book,  a  nice  old-f ashioried  fat  book 
of  all  the  old  nursery  rhymes,  and  filled  with  pictures 
too.  And  Ted's  pride  was  great  when  here  and  there 
he  could  make  out  a  word  or  two.  Thanks  to  the 

106 


GETTING  BIG.  107 

pictures,  to  his  own  good  memory,  and  the  patience 
of  all  the  big  people  about  him,  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore he  could  say  nearly  all  of  them.  And  so  a  new 
pleasure  was  added  to  these  happy  summer  days,  and 
to  many  a  winter  evening  to  come. 

That  night  when  Ted  was  going  to  bed  he  said  his 
prayers  as  usual  at  his  mother's  knee. 

"  Make  me  a  good  little  boy,"  he  said,  and  then 
when  he  had  ended  he  jumped  up  for  his  good-night 
kiss,  with  a  beaming  face. 

"I  sink  God  has  made  me  good,  muzzer,"  he 
said. 

"Do  you,  dear?  I  hope  he  is  making  you  so,"  she 
answered.  "But  what  makes  you  say  so?" 

"  'Cos  I  feel  so  happy  and  so  good,"  said  Ted,  "and 
thoo  said  I  was  good  to-day  when  thoo  kissed  me. 
And  oh,  may  I  take  my  sprendid  hymn-book  to  bed 
wif  me  ?  " 

And  with  the  ancient  legends  of  Jack  and  Jill 
and  Little  Boy  Blue,  and  Margery  Daw,  safely  under 
his  pillow,  happy  Ted  fell  asleep.  I  wonder  if  he 
dreamt  of  them !  What  a  pity  that  so  much  of  the 
pretty  fancies  and  visions  of  little  childhood  are  lost 
to  us !  What  quaint  pictures  they  would  make. 
What  a  heavy  burden  should  lie  on  the  consciences 
of  those  who,  by  careless  words  or  unconsidered  tone, 
destroy  the  lovely  tenderness  of  little  childrens' 
dreams  and  conceits,  rub  off  the  bloom  of  baby 
poetry ! 


108  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

I  could  tell  you,  dear  little  friends,  many  pretty 
stories  of  Ted  and  his  tiny  sister  during  the  first 
sunny  year  of  little  Narcissa's  life,  but  I  dare  say  it 
may  be  more  interesting  to  you  to  hear  more  of  these 
children  as  they  grow  older.  The  day-by-day  life  of 
simple  happy  little  people  is,  I  trust,  familiar  to  you 
all,  and  as  I  want  you  to  know  my  boy  Ted,  to  think 
of  him  through  your  own  childhood  as  a  friend  and 
companion,  I  must  not  take  up  too  much  of  the 
little  book,  so  quickly  filled,  with  the  first  years  only 
of  his  life.  And  these  had  now  come  to  an  end  —  a 
change,  to  Ted  a  great  and  wonderful  change,  hap- 
pened about  this  time.  Before  little  Cissy  had  learnt 
to  run  alone,  before  Ted  had  mastered  the  longest 
words  in  his  precious  "  hymn-book,"  these  little  peo- 
ple had  to  leave  their  beautiful  mountain  home. 
One  day  when  the  world  was  looking  pensive  and 
sad  in  its  autumn  dress,  the  good-byes  had  to  be 
said  —  good-bye  to  the  garden  and  Ted's  shaky 
bridge  ;  good-bye  to  old  David ;  and  alas  !  good-bye  to 
Cheviott's  grave,  all  that  was  left  of  the  faithful  old 
collie  to  say  good-bye  to ;  good-bye  to  the  far-off 
murmur  of  the  sea  and  the  silent  mountain  that 
little  Ted  had  once  been  so  afraid  of;  good-bye 
to  all  of  the  dear  old  home,  where  Ted's  blue  cart 
was  left  forgotten  under  a  tree,  where  the  birds  went 
on  singing  and  chirping  as  if  there  were  no  such 
things  as  good-byes  in  the  world  —  and  Ted  and 
Cissy,  were  driven  away  to  a  new  home,  and  the  oft- 


GETTING   BIG.  109 

told  stories  of  their  first  one  were  all  that  was  left  of 
it  to  their  childish  minds. 

A  good  many  hours'  journey  from  the  mountains 
and  the  sea  near  which  these  children  had  spent  their 
first  happy  years,  in  quite  another  corner  of  England, 
there  is  to  be  found  a  beautiful,  quiet  old  town.  It 
is  beautiful  from  its  position,  for  it  stands  on  rising 
ground ;  a  fine  old  river  flows  round  the  feet  of  its 
castle  rock,  and  on  the  other  side  are  to  be  seen  high 
cliffs  with  pleasant  winding  paths,  sometimes  descend- 
ing close  to  the  water's  edge,  and  it  is  beautiful  in 
itself.  For  the  castle  is  such  a  castle  as  is  not  to  be 
met  with  many  times  in  one's  life.  It  has  taken 
centuries  of  repose  after  the  stormy  scenes  it  lived 
through  in  the  long-ago  days  to  make  it  what  it  now 
is  —  a  venerable  old  giant  among  its  fellows,  grim 
and  solemn  yet  with  a  dreamy  peacefulness  about  it, 
that  has  a  wonderful  charm.  As  you  cross  the  un- 
used drawbridge  and  your  footsteps  sink  in  the  mossy 
grass  of  the  great  courtyard,  it  would  not  be  difficult 
to  fancy  you  were  about  to  enter  the  castle  of  the 
sleeping-beauty  of  the  dear  old  fairy-tale  —  so  still 
and  dream-like  it  seems,  so  strange  it  is  to  picture  to 
one's  fancy  the  now  grass-grown  keep  with  the  din 
and  clang  of  horsemen  and  men-at-arms  that  it  must 
once  have  known.  And  near  by  is  a  grand  old 
church,  solemn  and  silent  too,  but  differently  so  from 
its  twin-brother  the  castle.  The  one  is  like  a  warrior 
resting  after  his  battles,  thinking  sadly  of  the  wild 


110  A   CHKISTMAS   CHILD. 

scenes  he  has  seen  and  taken  part  in  ;  the  other  like 
a  holy  man  of  old,  silent  and  solemn  too,  but  with 
the  weight  of  human  sorrows  and  anxieties  that 
have  been  confided  to  him,  yet  ever  ready  to  sym- 
pathise and  to  point  upwards  with  a  hope  that  never 
fails. 

These  at  least  were  the  feelings  that  the  sight  of 
the  old  church  and  the  old  castle  gave  me,  children 
dear.  I  don't  suppose  Ted  thought  of  them  in  this 
way  when  he  first  made  their  acquaintance,  and  yet 
I  don't  know.  He  might  not  have  been  able  to  say 
much  of  what  he  felt,  he  was  such  a  little  fellow. 
But  he  did  feel,  and  in  a  way  that  was  strange  and 
new,  and  nearly  took  his  breath  away  the  first  time 
he  entered  the  beautiful  old  church,  walking  quietly 
up  the  aisle  behind  his  father,  his  little  hat  in  his 
hand,  gazing  up  with  his  earnest  eyes  at  the  myste- 
rious stretch  of  the  lofty  roof.  "  O  mother,"  he  said, 
when  he  went  home,  "  when  I  am  big  I  will  always 
like  the  high  church  best."  And  when  the  clear 
ringing  chimes  burst  forth,  as  they  did  with  ever- 
fresh  beauty  four  times  a  day,  sounding  to  the  baby 
fancy  as  if  they  came  straight  down  from  heaven,  it 
was  all  Ted  could  do  not  to  burst  into  tears,  as  he 
had  done  that  summer  day  when  Mabel  had  sung 
"  Home,  sweet  home  "  in  the  mountain-gorge. 

For  it  was  in  this  old  town,  with  its  church  and 
castle  and  quaint  streets,  where  some  of  the  houses 
are  still  painted  black  and  white,  and  others  lean  for- 


GETTING   BIG.  Ill 

ward  in  the  top  stories  as  if  they  wanted  to  kiss  each 
other ;  where  the  front  doors  mostly  open  right  on  to 
the  street,  and  you  come  upon  the  dear  old  gardens 
as  a  sort  of  delicious  surprise  at  the  back ;  where  each 
turn  as  you  walk  about  these  same  old  streets  gives 
you  a  new  peep,  more  delightful  than  the  last,  of 
the  river  or  the  cliffs  or  the  far  distant  hills  with 
their  tender  lights  and  shadows ;  where,  on  market 
days  the  country  people  come  trooping  in  with  their 
poultry  and  butter  and  eggs,  with  here  and  there  a 
scarlet  cloak  among  them,  the  coming  and  going 
giving  the  old  High  Street  the  look  almost  of  a  for- 
eign town ;  —  here  in  this  dear  old  place  little  Ted 
took  root  again,  and  learned  to  love  his  new  home  so 
much  that  he  forgot  to  pine  for  the  mountains  and 
the  sea.  And,  here,  some  years  after  we  said  good- 
bye to  them  as  they  drove  away  from  the  pretty 
house  in  the  garden,  we  find  them  again  —  Ted,  a 
big  boy  of  nine  or  ten,  Cissy  looking  perhaps  older 
than  she  really  was,  so  bright  and  hearty  and  capable 
a  little  maiden  had  she  become. 

They  are  in  the  garden,  the  dear  garden  that  was 
as  delightful  a  playing  place  as  children  could  have, 
though  quite,  quite  different  from  the  first  one  you 
saw  Ted  in.  There  it  was  all  ups  and  downs,  lying 
as  it  did  on  the  side  of  a  hill ;  here  the  paths  are  on 
flat  ground,  though  some  are  zigzaggy  of  course,  as 
the  little  paths  in  an  interesting  garden  always 
should  be ;  while  besides  these,  some  fine  broad  ones 


112  A    CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

run  straight  from  one  end  to  another,  making  splen- 
did highroads  for  drives  in  wheelbarrows  or  toy-carts. 
And  in  this  garden  too  the  trees  are  high  and  well 
grown,  and  plenty  of  them.  It  was  just  the  place  for 
hide-and-seek  or  "  I  spy." 

Ted  and  Cissy  have  been  working  at  their  gardens. 

"  Oh  dear,"  said  the  little  girl,  throwing  down 
her  tiny  rake  and  hoe,  "  Cissy  Is  so  tired.  And  the 
f  owers  won't  grow  if  they  isn't  planted  kick.  Cissy 
is  so  fond  of  f  owers." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Ted,  ubut  girls  are  so  quickly 
tired.  It's  no  good  their  trying  to  garden." 

Cissy  looked  rather  disconsolate. 

"  Boys  shouldn't  have  all  the  f'owers,"  she  said. 
"  Zoo's  not  a  summer  child,  Ted,  zoo's  a  Kismas 
child.  Zoo  should  have  snow,  and  Cissy  should 
have  f'owers." 

She  looked  at  her  brother  rather  mischievously  as 
she  said  this. 

"  As  it  happens,  Miss  Cissy,"  said  Ted,  "  there 
wasn't  any  snow  the  Christmas  I  was  born.  Mother 
told  me  so.  And  anyway,  if  you  liked  snowballs 
I'd  let  you  have  them,  so  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't 
have  flowers." 

Cissy  threw  her  arms  round  Ted's  neck  and  kissed 
him.  "  Poor  Ted,"  she  said,  "  zoo  shall  have  f'owers. 
But  Cissy  won't  have  any  in  her  garden  if  zey  isn't 
planted  kick." 

"Well,  never  mind.      I'll   help   you,"   said    Ted; 


GETTING  BIG.  113 

"as  soon  as  I've  done  my  lessons  this  evening,  I'll 
work  in  your  garden." 

"  Zank  zoo,  dear  Ted,"  said  Cissy  rapturously,  and 
a  new  hugging  ensued,  which  Ted  submitted  to  with 
a  good  grace,  though  lately  it  had  dawned  on  him 
that  he  was  getting  rather  too  big  for  kissing. 

The  children's  "  gardens  "  were  just  under  the  wall 
that  skirted  their  father's  real  garden.  On  the  other 
side  of  this  wall  ran  the  highroad,  and  the  lively 
sights  and  sounds  to  be  heard  and  seen  from  the  top 
of  this  same  wall  made  the  position  of  their  own  bit 
of  ground  greatly  to  their  liking.  Only  the  getting 
on  to  the  wall !  There  was  the  difficulty.  For  Ted 
it  was  not  so  tremendous.  He  could  clamber  up 
by  the  help  of  niches  which  he  managed  to  make 
for  his  feet  here  and  there  between  the  stones,  and 
the  consequent  destruction  to  trousers  and  stockings 
had  never  as  yet  occurred  to  his  boyish  mind.  But 
Cissy  —  poor  Cissy !  it  was  quite  impossible  to  get 
her  up  on  to  the  wall,  and  for  some  time  an  ambitious 
project  had  been  taking  shape  in  Ted's  brain. 

"  Cissy,"  he  said,  when  he  was  released,  "  it's  no 
good  beginning  working  at  your  garden  now.  We 
have  to  go  in  in  ten  minutes.  I'm  going  up  on  the 
wall  for  a  few  minutes.  You  stay  there,  and  I'll  call 
down  to  you  all  I  see." 

"  O  Ted,"  said  Cissy,  "  I  wiss  I  could  climb  up 
the  wall  too." 

"  I  know  you  do,"  said  Ted.     "  I've  been  thinking 


114  A    CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

about  that.     Wait  till  I  get  up,  and  I'll  tell  you 
about  it." 

Full  of  faith  in  Ted's  wisdom,  little  Cissy  sat  down 
by  the  roots  of  a  great  elm-tree  which  stood  in  her 
brother's  domain.  "  My  tree  "  Ted  had  always  called 
it,  and  it  was  one  of  the  charms  of  his  property. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  climb,  even  Cissy  could  be 
hoisted  some  way  up  —  to  the  level  of  top  of  the 
wall  indeed,  without  difficulty,  but  unfortunately 
between  the  tree  and  the  wall  there  was  a  space, 
too  wide  to  cross.  And  even  when  the  right  level 
was  reached,  it  was  too  far  back  to  see  on  to  the  road. 

"If  only  the  tree  grew  close  to  the  wall,"  Ted 
had  often  said  to  himself;  and  now  as  Cissy  sat 
down  below  wondering  what  Ted  was  going  to  do, 
his  quick  eyes  were  examining  all  about  to  see  if  a 
plan  that  had  struck  him  would  be  possible. 

"  Cissy,"  he  cried  suddenly,  and  Cissy  started  to 
her  feet.  "  Oh  what,  Ted  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  I  see  how  it  could  be  done.  If  I  had  a  plank  of 
wood  I  could  fasten  it  to  the  tree  on  one  side,  and  — 
and  —  I  could  find  some  way  if  I  tried,  of  fastening 
it  to  the  wall  on  the  other,  and  then  I  could  pull  the 
branches  down  a  little  —  they're  nearly  down  far 
enough,  to  make  a  sort  of  back  to  the  seat,  and  oh, 
Cissy,  it  would  be  such  a  lovely  place !  We  could 
both  sit  on  it,  and  see  all  that  passed.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'm  seeing  now.  There's  a  man  with  a  wheel- 
barrow just  passing,  and  such  a  queer  little  dog  run- 


GETTING    BIG.  115 

ning  beside,   and   farther  off   there's  a  boy  with  a 
basket,  and  two  girls,  and  one  of  them's  carrying  a 
baby,  and — yes,  there's  a  cart  and  horse  coming  — 
awfully  fast.    I  do  believe  the  horse  is  running  away. 
No,  he's  pulled  it  up,  and  —  " 

"  O  Ted,"  said  Cissy,  clasping  her  hands,  "  how 
lovely  it  must  be  !  O  Ted,  do  come  down  and  be 
kick  about  making  the  place  for  me,  for  Cissy." 

Just  then  the  dinner-bell  rang.  Ted  began  his 
descent,  Cissy  eagerly  awaiting  him.  She  took  his 
hand  and  trotted  along  beside  him. 

"  Do  zoo  think  zoo  can  do  it,  Ted  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  must  see  about  the  wood  first,"  said  Ted,  not 
without  a  little  importance  in  his  tone ;  "  I  think 
there's  some  pieces  in  the  coach-house  that  would  do." 

At  luncheon  the  big  people,  of  whom  there  were 
several,  for  some  uncles  and  aunts  had  been  staying 
with  the  children's  father  and  mother  lately,  noticed 
that  Ted  and  Cissy  looked  very  eager  about  something. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourselves,  you 
little  people,  this  morning?"  said  one  of  the  aunties 
kindly. 

Cissy  was  about  to  answer,  but  a  glance  from  Ted 
made  her  shut  tight  her  little  mouth  again.  There 
must  be  some  reason  for  it  —  perhaps  this  delightful 
plan  was  to  be  a  secret,  for  her  faith  in  Ted  was  un- 
bounded. 

"  We've  been  in  the  garden,  in  our  gardens,"  Ted 
replied. 


116  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

"  Digging  up  the  plants  to  see  if  they  were  grow- 
ing —  eh  ?  "  said  an  uncle  who  liked  to  tease  a  little 
sometimes. 

Ted  didn't  mind  teasing.  He  only  laughed.  Cissy 
looked  a  little,  a  very  little  offended.  She  did  not 
like  teasing,  and  she  specially  disliked  any  one  teas- 
ing her  dear  Ted.  Her  face  grew  a  little  red. 

"  Ted  knows  about  fowers  bootilly,"  she  said; 
"  Ted  knows  lots  of  things." 

"Cissy!"  said  Ted,  whose  turn  it  was  now  to 
grow  a  little  red,  but  Cissy  maintained  her  ground. 

"  Ses,"  she  said.    "  Ted  does." 

"  Ted's  to  grow  up  a  very  clever  man,  isn't  he, 
Cissy?"  said  her  father  encouragingly — "  as  clever 
as  Uncle  Ted  here." 

"  Oh  no,"  the  little  fellow  replied,  blushing  still 
more,  for  Ted  never  put  himself  forward  so  as  to  be 
noticed ;  "  I  never  could  be  that.  Uncle  Ted  writes 
books  with  lots  of  counting  and  stick-sticks  in  them 
and—" 

"  Lots  of  what?  "  asked  his  uncle. 

"  Stick-sticks,"  said  Ted  simply.  "  I  don't  know 
what  it  means,  but  mother  told  me  it  was  a  sort  of 
counting  — like  how  many  days  in  the  year  were  fine 
and  how  many  rainy." 

"  Or  how  many  old  women  with  baskets,  and  how 
many  without,  passed  down  the  road  this  morn- 
ing —  eh,  Ted  ? "  said  his  other  uncle,  laughing 
heartily. 


GETTING  BIG.  117 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Ted.  "  Are  stick-sticks 
any  good  ?  "  he  inquired,  consideringly. 

"  It's  to  be  hoped  so,"  said  Uncle  Ted. 

A  bright  idea  struck  the  little  fellow.  He  must 
talk  it  over  with  Cissy.  If  only  that  delightful  seat 
between  the  tree  and  the  wall  was  arranged  they 
might  make  "  stick-sticks  "  !  What  fun,  and  how 
pleased  Uncle  Ted  would  be  !  Already  Ted's  active 
brain  began  to  plan  it  all.  They  should  have  a  nice 
big  ruled  sheet  of  paper  and  divide  it  into  rows,  as 
for  columns  of  sums :  one  row  should  be  for  horses 
alone,  and  one  for  horses  with  carts,  and  one  for 
people,  and  one  for  children,  and  another  for  dogs, 
and  another  for  wheelbarrows  perhaps.  And  then 
sometimes  donkeys  passed,  and  now  and  then  pigs 
even,  on  their  way  to  market  —  yes,  a  lot  of  rows 
would  be  needed.  And  at  the  top  of  the  paper  he 
would  write  in  nice  big  letters  "  stick "  —  no, 
mother  would  tell  him  how  to  write  it  nicely,  he 
knew  that  wasn't  quite  the  real  word,  mother  would 
spell  it  for  him :  "  St  —  something  —  of  what 
passed  the  tree."  It  would  be  almost  like  writing  a 
book. 

He  was  so  eager  about  it  that  he  could  hardly 
finish  his  dinner.  For  a  great  deal  was  involved  in 
his  plan,  as  you  shall  hear. 

In  the  first  place,  it  became  evident  to  him  after 
an  examination  of  the  bits  of  wood  in  the  unused 
coach-house,  that  there  was  nothing  there  that  would 


118  A    CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

do.  He  could  get  a  nice  little  plank,  a  plank  that 
would  not  scratch  poor  Cissy's  legs  or  tear  her 
frocks,  from  the  carpenter,  but  then  it  would  cost 
money,  for  Ted  had  gained  some  worldly  wisdom 
since  the  days  when  he  thought  the  kind  shopkeepers 
spread  out  their  wares  for  everybody  to  help  them- 
selves as  they  liked.  And  Ted  was  rather  short  of 
money,  and  Ted  was  of  rather  an  independent  spirit. 
He  would  much  prefer  not  asking  mother  for  any. 
The  seat  in  the  tree  would  be  twice  as  nice  if  he 
could  manage  it  all  his  own  self,  as  Cissy  would  say. 

Ted  thought  it  all  over  a  great  deal,  and  talked 
about  it  to  Cissy.  It  was  a  good  thing,  they  agreed, 
that  it  was  holiday-time  just  now,  even  though  Ted 
had  every  day  some  lessons  to  do.  And  though 
Cissy  was  very  little,  it  was,  after  all,  she  who 
thought  of  a  plan  for  gaining  some  money,  as  you 
shall  hear. 

Some  few  times  in  their  lives  Ted  and  Cissy  had 
seen  Punch  and  Judy,  and  most  delightful  they 
thought  it.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong  in  saying  Cissy 
had  seen  it  more  than  once,  but  Ted  had,  and  he 
used  to  amuse  Cissy  by  acting  it  over  to  please 
her.  And  I  think  it  was  from  this  that  her  idea 
came. 

"  Appose,  Ted,"  she  said  the  next  day  when  they 
were  out  in  the  garden  having  a  great  consultation  — 
"appose  we  make  a  show,  and  all  the  big  people 
would  give  us  pennies." 


GETTING   BIG.  119 

Ted  considered  for  a  minute.  They  were  standing, 
Cissy  and  he,  by  the  railing  which  at  one  side  of 
their  father's  pretty  garden  divided  it  from  some 
lovely  fields,  where  sheep,  with  their  dear  little  lambs 
skipping  about  beside  them,  were  feeding.  Far  in  the 
distance  rose  the  soft  blue  outlines  of  a  lofty  hill,  "  our 
precious  hill  "  Ted's  mother  used  to  call  it,  and  indeed 
it  was  almost  worthy  of  the  name  of  mountain,  and 
for  this  she  valued  it  still  more,  as  it  seemed  to  her 
like  a  reminder  of  the  mountain  home  she  had  loved 
so  dearly.  Ted's  glance  fell  on  it,  and  it  carried  back 
his  thoughts  to  the  mountain  of  his  babyhood  and  the 
ogre  stories  mixed  up  with  it  in  his  mind.  And  then 
his  thoughts  went  wandering  away  to  his  old  "  hymn 
book,"  still  in  a  place  of  honour  in  his  bookshelves, 
and  to  the  fairy  stories  at  the  end  of  it  —  Cinderella  and 
the  others.  He  turned  to  Cissy  with  a  beaming  face. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,  Cis,"  he  said ;  "  we'll 
have  a  show  of  Beauty  and  the  Beast.  What  a  good 
idea  it  was  of  yours,  Cis,  to  have  a  show." 

Cissy  was  greatly  flattered.  Only  she  didn't  quite 
like  the  idea  of  her  dear  Ted  being  the  Beast.  But 
when  Ted  reminded  her  that  the  Beast  was  really  so 
good  and  kind,  she  grew  satisfied. 

"  And  how  awfully  pleased  Percy  will  be  when  he 
comes  to  see  the  seat,  won't  he  ?  "  said  Ted.  And  this 
thought  reconciled  him  to  what  hitherto  had  been 
rather  a  grief  to  him  —  that  Percy's  holidays  were 
shorter  and  fell  later  in  the  season  than  his. 


120  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

You  can  imagine,  children,  better  than  I  could  tell 
what  a  bustle  and  fuss  Ted  and  Cissy  were  in  all  that 
day.  They  looked  so  important,  Ted's  eyes  were  so 
bright,  and  Cissy's  little  mouth  shut  close  in  such  a 
dignified  way,  that  the  big  people  must  have  been 
very  stupid  big  people  not  to  suspect  something  out 
of  the  common.  But  as  they  were  very  kind  big 
people,  and  as  they  understood  children  and  chil- 
dren's ways,  they  took  care  not  to  seem  as  if  they  did 
notice,  and  Mabel  and  her  sister,  who  were  also  of 
the  home  party,  even  helped  Cissy  to  stitch  up  an 
old  muslin  window  curtain  in  a  wonderful  way  for 
Beauty's  dress,  without  making  any  indiscreet  re- 
marks. At  which  little  Cissy  greatly  rejoiced. 
"Wasn't  I  clever  not  to  let  zoo  find  out?"  she  said 
afterwards,  with  immense  satisfaction. 

Late  that  evening  —  late  for  the  children  that  is  to 
say  —  about  seven  o'clock,  for  Cissy  had  got  leave  to 
sit  up  an  hour  longer,  there  came  a  ring  at  the  hall 
bell,  and  a  very  funny-looking  letter  was  handed  in, 
which  a  boy  in  a  muffled  voice  told  the  servant  was 
for  the  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  that  she  was  to  tell 
them  the  "  act "  would  begin  in  five  minutes  "  in  the 
theatre  hall  of  the  day  nursery."  The  parlour  maid, 
who  (of  course  !)  had  not  the  least  idea  in  the  world 
that  the  messenger  was  Master  Ted,  gravely  handed 
the  letter  to  Miss  Mabel,  who  was  the  first  person  she 
saw,  and  Mabel  hastened  to  explain  to  the  others  that 
its  contents,  quarters  of  old  calling-cards  with  num- 


OH   DEAR,  OH  DEAR!"  CRIES  BEAUTY,  JUMPING  UP  IN  A 
FRIGHT,  "HE'S  COMING  TO  EAT  ME."  — p.  121. 


GETTING   BIG.  121 

bers  marked  on  them,  were  evidently  meant  to  be 
tickets  for  the  performance.  The  big  people  were  all 
much  amused,  but  all  of  course  were  quite  ready  to 
"  assist "  at  the  "  act."  They  thought  it  better  to  wait 
a  little  more  than  five  minutes  before  going  upstairs 
to  the  theatre  hall,  to  give  Ted  time  to  get  ready 
before  the  spectators  arrived,  not  understanding,  you 
see,  that  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  pin  his  father's  rough 
brown  railway  rug  on,  to  imitate  the  Beast.  So  when 
they  at  last  all  marched  upstairs  the  actors  were  both 
ready  awaiting  them. 

There  was  a  row  of  chairs  arranged  at  one  side  of 
the  nursery  for  the  visitors,  and  the  hearth-rug,  pulled 
out  of  its  place,  with  a  couple  of  footstools  at  each 
side,  served  for  the  stage.  Scene  first  was  Miss 
Beauty  sitting  in  a  corner  crying,  after  her  father 
had  left  her  in  the  Beast's  garden. 

"  He'll  eat  me  up  !  oh,  he'll  eat  me  up  !  "  she  sobs 
out ;  and  then  a  low  growl  is  heard,  and  from  a  corner 
behind  a  table  where  no  one  had  noticed  him,  a  very 
remarkable-looking  shapeless  sort  of  dark  brown  lump 
rolls  or  waddles  along  the  floor. 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear ! "  cries  Beauty,  jumping  up  in 
a  fright,  "he's  coming  to  eat  me." 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  to  eat  you,  dear  Beauty,"  the 
growly  voice  replies;  "I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you, 
dear  Beauty.  I've  brought  you  something  nice  to  eat 
for  your  tea.  I'm  sure  you  must  be  hungry;"  and 
from  somewhere  or  other  the  Beast  produces  a  plate 


122  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

with  some  biscuits,  which  he  humbly  lays  at  her  feet 
and  then  waddles  off  again.  Beauty  nibbles  at  the 
biscuits,  then  murmuring  to  herself,  "  He's  a  very 
kind  Beast,"  she  moves  away,  her  window-curtain 
train  sweeping  gracefully  after  her,  behind  the  screen, 
which  is  supposed  to  represent  the  inside  of  the 
Beast's  Castle,  and  where  he  himself  has  already  dis- 
appeared. And  this  is  the  end  of  the  first  scene,  the 
"  act  "  being  divided  into  two  scenes. 

The  audience  all  clap  their  hands  in  applause. 

"  Capital !  "  and  "  Bravo  !  "  they  call  out,  so  that 
Ted  and  Cissy  feel  their  cheeks  quite  red,  even  be- 
hind the  screen. 

"  Let's  get  it  done  quick,  Cissy,"  said  Ted ;  "  it 
makes  me  feel  so  silly  when  they  call  out  like  that." 

And  the  last  scene  is  hurried  on.  It  is  not  a  very 
long  one.  Beauty  has  been  away.  She  has  gone,  as 
everybody  knows,  on  a  visit  to  her  old  home,  and  on 
her  return  poor  Beast  is  nowhere  to  be  found.  At 
last  she  discovers  him  lying  quite  still  in  a  corner  of 
the  garden. 

"  Oh,  poor  Beast !  "  she  exclaims,  "  Cis  —  Booty,  I 
mean,  is  so  sorry.  Oh,  poor  Beast !  I  is  afraid  you  is 
kite  deaded,  and  I  do  love  zoo,  poor  Beast,"  at  which 
up  jumps  poor  Beast,  Beast  no  longer,  for  his  rough 
skin  rolls  off  as  if  by  magic,  and  lo  and  behold  there 
is  Ted,  got  up  ever  so  fine,  with  a  scarlet  scarf  round 
his  waist  and  an  elegant  old  velvet  smoking-cap  with 
a  long  tassel  on  his  head,  and  goodness  knows  what 
more. 


GETTING   BIG.  123 

u  Oh,  you  bootiful  P'ince,"  cries  Beauty,  and  then 
they  take  hands  and  bow  most  politely  to  the  audi- 
ence, and  then  in  a  sudden  fit  of  shamefacedness 
and  shyness,  they  both  scurry  off  behind  the  screen, 
Ted  toppling  over  Cissy's  long  train  on  the  way,  at 
.which  there  is  renewed  applause,  and  great  laughter 
from  the  actors  themselves.  But  the  manager  is  quite 
up  to  his  business.  "  That's  all,"  calls  out  a  little 
voice  from  behind  the  screen ;  "  zoo  may  all  go  now, 
and  pay  at  the  door"  And  sure  enough  as  the  big 
people  make  their  way  out,  there  is  Ted  in  his  usual 
attire  standing  at  the  door,  with  a  little  basket  in  his 
hand,  gracefully  held  out  for  contributions. 

"  Why,  how  did  you  get  here  already  ?  "  asks  his 
father. 

"  I  slipped  round  by  the  other  side  of  the  screen 
while  you  were  all  laughing  and  clapping,"  says  Ted, 
looking  up  with  a  beaming  face.  And  the  pennies 
and  sixpennies  that  find  their  way  into  the  basket 
are  several.  When  the  actors  count  up  their  gains 
before  they  go  to  bed,  they  are  the  happy  possessors 
of  two  shillings  and  sevenpence.  Far  more  than 
enough  to  pay  for  the  wood  for  the  seat  in  the  tree  ! 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

"  STATISTICS." 

"  Are  they  not  busy  ?  —  the  creatures  ! 

Wanting  to  go  to  their  beds  ?  —  not  they  ! " 

How  delightful  it  was  to  wake  the  next  morning 
and  to  see  sparkling  in  the  early  sunshine  the  neat 
little  silver  coins,  and  the  big  copper  ones,  laid  out 
in  a  row  on  his  table  !  Ted  jumped  out  of  bed,  not 
quite  so  early  as  he  had  intended,  for  he  had  been 
up  rather  later  than  usual  the  night  before,  and  by 
the  time  he  had  had  his  nice  cold  bath  and  was 
dressed,  he  heard  the  prayer  bell  ring,  and  was  only 
ready  to  take  his  seat  as  usual  on  a  little  chair  in  a 
corner  of  the  room  not  far  from  where  his  dear  old 
nurse  and  the  other  servants  were  placed.  He  liked 
better  to  sit  there,  for  it  gave  him  somehow  a  little 
uncomfortable  feeling  to  see  the  servants  quite  by 
themselves,  as  it  were,  so  separated  from  the  family, 
and  he  had  got  into  the  way  of  sitting  between  the 
two  sets  of  seats,  and  though  little  Narcissa  from  her 
perch  on  her  mother's  knee  would  sometimes  smile 
and  nod  and  beckon  to  him  to  come  nearer,  Ted  al- 
ways kept  to  his  own  place.  This  morning  many 
thoughts  were  dancing  about  his  brain,  and  it  was  a 

124 


"  STATISTICS."  125 

little  difficult  for  him  to  listen  with  his  usual  atten- 
tion, even  though  it  was  one  of  the  chapters  he  was 
very  fond  of,  especially  when  his  father  read  it  in 
his  nice  clear  voice.  It  was  that  one  about  the  boy 
Jesus,  staying  behind  His  father  and  mother  to  talk 
with  the  learned  doctors  in  the  temple,  and  though 
some  part  of  it  puzzled  Ted  rather,  yet  he  liked  to 
listen  and  think  about  it.  How  frightened  that 
father  and  mother  must  have  been !  How  was  it 
that  Jesus  knew  that  it  was  right  for  Him  to  stay 
behind  —  even  though  it  was  without  His  father's 
and  mother's  leave  ?  For  other  little  boys  it  would 
have  been  wrong,  but  then,  —  oh  yes,  of  course, 
Jesus  was  not  like  other  little  boys.  If  only  they,  if 
only  he,  Ted,  could  learn  to  be  more  like  Him,  the 
one  perfect  Christmas  child !  And  even  the  puz- 
zling part  of  it  grew  clearer  as  this  unconscious 
prayer  rose  out  of  the  innocent  heart.  For  Ted's 
own  father  and  mother,  even  if  they  were  fright- 
ened for  a  little,  would  not  be  vexed  if  he  did  some- 
thing without  their  leave  that  was  good  and  right. 
Only  it  was  difficult  to  tell,  very  difficult  —  on  the 
whole  Ted  felt  that  he  understood  what  his  mother 
told  him  about  being  obedient,  better  than  he  used. 
That  was  what  God  had  given  little  boys  fathers  and 
mothers  for,  for  they,  when  they  were  good  and  wise, 
could  not  but  know  best.  When  they  were  not  good 
and  wise,  like  the  fathers  and  mothers  of  some  of  the 
poor  London  street  boys  he  had  heard  of  —  oh,  how 


126  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

fearful  that  must  be  !  And  then  as  his  own  father's 
voice  went  on,  it  all  came  before  Ted  like  a  picture 
—  he  had  once  seen  a  picture  of  it,  he  thought  —  the 
first  setting-out  of  old  Joseph  and  the  sweet-faced 
mother,  the  distress  and  fear,  the  delight  of  finding 
the  Child  again,  and  then  the  long  walk  home  all 
together  to  the  carpenter's  shop  in  the  narrow  East- 
ern street.  And,  child-like,  Ted's  fancy  turned  again 
with  the  association  to  what  was  before  him  this  morn- 
ing. He  was  to  go  to  the  carpenter's  to  choose  the 
wood  for  the  seat  in  the  tree,  and  oh,  how  delightful 
it  would  be  to  see  it  arranged,  and  how  surprised 
Percy  would  be,  and  what  beautiful  rows  of  stick- 
sticks  Cissy  and  he  would  be  able  to  make  to  help 
Uncle  Ted.  All  kinds  of  pleasant  hopes  and  fancies 
were  racing  round  Ted's  brain  again  as  he  knelt  down 
with  the  others  to  listen  to  the  prayer  that  followed 
the  reading.  It  was  not  till  the  murmured  chorus  of 
"  Our  Father,"  repeated  all  together  at  the  end,  caught 
his  ear,  that  with  a  sudden  start  Ted  realised  that  he 
had  not  been  listening. 

He  did  feel  sorry  and  ashamed,  but  he  was  so  happy 
that  morning,  the  world  outside  was  so  bright  and 
sunny,  and  the  people  inside  so  kind  and  cheerful,  as 
they  all  sat  round  the  breakfast  table,  that  Ted's  self- 
reproach  did  not  last.  And  as  soon  as  he  had  fin- 
ished the  short  morning  lessons  he  had  to  do  in  the 
holidays,  he  got  leave  from  mother  to  go  off  to  order 
the  plank  for  the  seat. 


"STATISTICS."  127 

It  turned  out  a  little  dearer  than  he  had  ex- 
pected. Two  and  sevenpence  were  the  funds  in 
hand. 

44 1  could  give  you  a  piece  of  wood  for  much  less 
of  course,  sir,"  said  the  good-natured  carpenter,  who 
was  a  great  ally  of  Ted's,  "but  as  you  explain  it  to 
me  it  needs  something  more  than  a  bit  of  wood,  else 
it  wouldn't  be  safe  for  you  and  the  young  lady  to  sit 
on ; "  and  then  he  showed  the  boy  how  it  should  be 
done,  Avith  a  small  iron  bolt  driven  into  the  wall  and 
another  of  a  different  kind  fixed  to  the  tree.  "  Then," 
said  he,  t4  it  will  be  as  safe  as  safe,  and  I'll  plane  you 
a  neat  little  seat  with  no  splinters  or  sharp  edges  to 
tear  Missy's  frocks." 

Ted  was  delighted.  His  quick  eye  caught  at  once 
the  carpenter's  plan,  and  he  saw  how  much  more  sat- 
isfactory and  complete  it  would  be  than  the  rough 
idea  he  had  had  at  first.  But  the  price  ?  Ted  felt 
much  afraid  that  here  was  to  be  the  difficulty. 

44  How  much  will  it  cost,  Mr.  Newton  ?  "  he  in- 
quired anxiously. 

The  carpenter  reflected  a  moment. 

44  Wood,  so  much  ;  bolts,  so  much  ;  nails  ;  time  ;  " 
Ted  heard  him  half  whispering  to  himself.  Then  he 
looked  up. 

44  A  matter  of  three  shillings  or  so,  sir,"  he  replied. 
44  I'll  try  that  it  shan't  be  more.  But  you  see  the 
bolts  I  have  to  buy,  they're  not  things  as  we  use 
every  day.  And  for  the  time,  sir,  I'm  not  thinking 


128  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

much  of  that.  The  evenings  are  light  now.  I'll  try 
and  see  to  it  myself  after  work's  over." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Newton,"  said  Ted. 
"  I  think  it'll  be  all  right.  But  I'd  like  first  to  tell 
my  mother  how  much  it  will  cost,  and  then  I'll  run 
back  and  settle  about  it." 

"  All  right,  sir,"  the  carpenter  replied ;  arid  after 
pausing  a  moment  at  the  door  to  pat  the  great  big 
gentle  dog,  that  was  lying  there  blinking  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  thinking  to  himself  that  its  eyes  somehow 
reminded  him  of  long  ago  Cheviott  whom  Ted  still 
remembered,  though  Newton's  dog  wasn't  at  all  the 
same  kind,  the  boy  ran  off  again,  whistling  as  he 
went,  with  light  dancing  steps  down  the  in-and-out 
zigzag  streets  of  the  old  town,  stopping  a  moment, 
eager  as  he  was,  to  admire  the  peeps  of  lovely  view 
he  came  upon  now  and  then  as  he  turned  a  corner,  or 
crossed  the  open  market-place. 

He  was  in  great  spirits.  Fivepence  short  he  felt 
sure  could  easily  be  made  up. 

"  Either  mother  will  give  it  me,"  he  thought,  "  or 
she'll  find  some  way  of  my  earning  it.  I'm  sure  she'd 
like  it  properly  done,  and  there'll  be  no  fear  of  Cissy 
or  me  hurting  ourselves." 

On  he  danced  again,  for  now  he  was  in  more  open 
ground,  running  along  the  country  highroad  where 
was  his  home.  A  few  cottages  stood  not  far  from 
where  he  was  passing  —  cottages  of  respectable 
people,  with  several  of  whom  sociable  Ted  was  on 


129 

friendly  terms,  and  just  as  he  was  nearing  the  first  of 
these,  a  boy  about  his  own  age  came  out,  a  basket  on 
his  arm  and  in  his  hands  something  tied  up  in  a  cloth 
which  he  was  carrying  carefully.  But  boys  will  be 
boys ! 

"  Good-morning,  Jamie,"  said  Ted  as  they  met, 
for  he  recognised  the  boy  as  the  son  of  a  man  living 
farther  down  the  road,  who  had  sometimes  worked 
for  his  father ;  "  where  have  you  been,  and  what's 
that  you've  got  ?  "  and  in  pure  fun  Ted  tapped  with 
a  switch  he  was  carrying  on  the  mysterious  bundle. 

Jamie  looked  up  laughingly. 

"  O  Master  Ted,"  he  was  just  beginning,  but  some- 
how —  how  I  cannot  tell,  and  I  feel  pretty  sure  that 
neither  Ted  nor  Jamie  could  have  told  either  —  Ted's 
friendly  tap  had  either  distracted  his  attention  so 
that  he  trod  on  a  stone  and  lost  his  balance,  or  else 
it  had  destroyed  the  equilibrium  of  the  bundle  itself, 
so  that  almost  before  he  had  time  even  to  say  "O 
Master  Ted,"  the  mischief  was  done.  Down  plumped 
the  bundle,  with  a  crash  of  broken  crockery,  and  a 
brown  liquid  at  once  oozed  out  through  the  cloth, 
making  a  melancholy  puddle  on  the  road.  Jamie's 
half-spoken  words  changed  into  a  cry  of  despair.  It 
was  the  Sunday's  dinner  which  had  come  to  grief, 
the  pie  which  his  poor  mother  had  prepared  so  care- 
fully, and  which  he  was  taking  home  from  his  grand- 
mother's, in  whose  oven  it  had  been  baking. 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  what  ever  shall  I  do  ? "  cried 


130  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

the  poor  little  boy.  "  What  will  mother  say  ?  Oh 
dear,  oh  dear !  —  O  Master  Ted,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Jamie's  tears  and  sobs  were  pitiful.  Ted,  with  a 
pale  concerned  face,  stood  beside  him,  speechless. 

"  It  was  all  my  fault,  Jamie,"  he  said  at  last.  "  It's 
me  your  mother  must  scold,  not  you.  I  must  go 
home  with  you,  and  tell  her  it  wasn't  your  fault." 

"Oh  but  it  were,"  sobbed  the  child.  "Mother 
always  tells  me  to  look  neither  to  right  nor  to  left 
when  I'm  carrying  anything  like  this  here.  Oh 
deary  me,  what  ever  shall  I  do  ?  " 

He  stooped  down  and  untied  the  knots  of  the 
large  checked  handkerchief  in  which  the  unfortunate 
pie  had  been  enveloped.  The  dish  was  all  in  pieces, 
the  gravy  fast  disappearing.  Jamie  gathered  to- 
gether, using  the  largest  bit  of  the  broken  stone- 
ware as  a  plate,  some  of  the  pieces  of  meat  which 
might  still  be  eaten,  and  Ted,  stooping  down  too, 
helped  him  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  But  it  was 
very  little  that  could  be  saved  from  the  shipwreck. 
And  then  the  two  boys  turned  in  the  direction  of 
Jamie's  home,  Jamie  sobbing  all  the  way,  and  Ted 
himself  too  appalled  to  know  what  to  say  to  comfort 
him. 

Jamie's  mother  was  a  busy,  hard-working  woman. 
She  was  kind  to  her  children,  but  that  is  not  to  say 
that  they  never  had  a  sharp  word  from  her.  And 
there  were  so  many  of  them  —  more  than  enough  to 
try  the  patience  of  a  mother  less  worried  by  other 


131 


cares.  So  poor  Jamie  had  some  reason  to  cry,  and 
he  did  not  attempt  to  prevent  Ted's  going  home  with 
him  —  alone  he  would  hardly  have  dared  to  face  the 
expected  scolding. 

She  was  at  the  door,  or  just  inside  it,  as  the  boys 
made  their  appearance,  with  a  big  tub  before  her  in 
which  she  was  washing  up  some  odds  and  ends, 
without  which  her  numerous  family  could  not  have 
made  their  usual  tidy  appearance  at  church  and 
Sunday  school  the  next  day.  For  it  was  Saturday, 
often  a  rather  trying  day  to  heads  of  households  in 
every  class.  But  Jim's  mother  was  in  pretty  good 
spirits.  She  had  got  on  with  her  work,  Sunday's 
pie  had  been  made  early  and  sent  on  to  granny's, 
and  Jamie,  who  was  a  very  careful  messenger,  would 
be  back  with  it  immediately,  all  ready  to  be  eaten 
cold  with  hot  potatoes  the  next  day.  So  Sunday's 
dinner  was  off  the  good  woman's  mind,  when  sud- 
denly a  startling  vision  met  her  gaze.  There  was 
Jamie,  red-eyed  and  tearful,  coming  down  the  road, 
and  beside  him  the  little  master  from  the  Lawn 
House.  What  could  be  the  matter?  Jamie  had  not 
hurt  himself,  thus  much  was  evident,  but  what  was 
the  small  and  shapeless  bundle  he  was  carrying  in 
the  handkerchief  she  had  given  him  to  cover  the  pie, 
and  what  had  come  over  the  nice  clean  handkerchief 
itself?  The  poor  woman's  heart  gave  a  great  throb 
of  vexation. 

"  What  ever  have  ye  done  with  the  pie,  Jamie  ?  " 


132  A    CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

she  exclaimed  first  in  her  anxiety,  though  she  then 
turned  in  haste  to  bid  the  little  master  "  good- 
morning." 

"  O  mother,"  Jamie  began,  his  sobs  bursting  out 
afresh,  but  Ted  put  him  gently  aside. 

"  Let  me  tell,"  he  said.  "  I  came  on  purpose. 
If  —  if  you  please,"  he  went  on  eagerly,  though  his 
fair  face  flushed  a  little,  "it  was  all  my  fault.  I 
gave  Jim  a  little  poke  with  my  stick,  quite  in  fun, 
and  somehow  it  made  him  drop  the  pie.  But  it  isn't 
his  fault.  You  won't  scold  him,  please,  will  you?" 

Vexed  as  she  was,  Jamie's  mother  could  not  but 
feel  softened.  Ted's  friendly  ways  were  well  known 
to  his  poorer  neighbours,  who  with  one  voice  pro- 
nounced him  "  a  perfect  little  gentleman  wherever  he 
goes." 

"It's  not  much  use  scolding,"  she  said  gently 
enough,  but  still  with  real  distress  in  her  tone  which 
went  to  Ted's  heart.  "No  use  crying  over  spilt 
milk,  as  my  master  says.  But  still  I  do  think 
Jamie  might  have  been  more  careful.  However,  it 
can't  be  helped,  but  they'll  have  to  do  without  a  pie 
for  dinner  to-morrow.  And  thank  you,  Master  Ted, 
for  coming  along  of  Jim  for  to  tell  me." 

"  But  it  wasn't  Jim's  fault.  It  was  all  mine," 
repeated  Ted  sadly.  And  then  he  bade  the  poor 
woman  good-bye,  and  nodding  to  Jim,  who  was  still 
wiping  his  eyes,  though  looking  a  good  deal  less 
frightened,  the  boy  set  off  towards  home  again. 


"  STATISTICS."  133 

But  how  different  everything  looked  —  the  sun 
was  as  bright,  the  air  as  pleasant  as  ten  minutes 
before,  but  Ted's  heart  was  heavy,  and  when  at  the 
garden  gate  he  met  his  mother,  who  greeted  him 
with  her  kind  smile  and  asked  him  if  he  had  settled 
with  Newton  about  the  seat,  it  was  all  poor  Ted 
could  do  not  to  burst  into  tears.  He  was  running 
past  his  mother  into  the  house,  with  a  hasty  "  Yes, 
thank  you,  mother,  I'll  tell  you  about  it  afterwards," 
for  he  had  not  yet  made  up  his  mind  what  he  should 
say  or  do ;  it  was  his  own  fault,  and  he  must  suffer 
for  it,  that  was  his  first  idea,  but  his  mother  stopped 
him.  The  momentary  glance  at  his  face  had  been 
sufficient  to  show  her  that  something  was  the 
matter. 

"What  is  it,  Ted,  dear?"  she  said  kindly  and 
anxiously. 

Ted's  answer  was  a  question,  and  a  very  queer 
question. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  how  much  do  pies  cost  ?  " 

"Pies,"  repeated  his  mother,  "what  kind  of  pies 
do  you  mean?  Big  ones,  little  ones,  meat  ones,  or 
what?" 

"Big  ones,  mother,  at  least  a  big  one,  and  all 
made  of  meat,  with  crust  at  the  top.  And  oh  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  "  there  was  the  dish  !  I  dare  say  that  cost 
a  good  deal,"  and  his  face  grew  sadder  and  sadder. 

But  his  mother  told  him  he  really  must  explain, 
and  so  he  did.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  about  it, 


134  A   CHKISTMAS   CHILD. 

mother,"  he  said,  "  for  it  was  my  own  fault,  and 
telling  you  seems  almost  like  asking  for  the  money," 
and  here  poor  Ted's  face  grew  red  again.  "  I 
thought  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  take  the  act 
money,  the  two  shillings  and  sevenpence,  you  know, 
mother,  and  give  it  to  Jamie's  mother,  arid  just  give 
up  having  the  seat,"  and  here  Ted's  repressed  feel- 
ings were  too  much  for  him.  He  turned  away  his 
face  and  fairly  burst  into  tears.  Give  up  the  seat ! 
Think  of  all  that  meant  to  him,  poor  boy.  The 
pleasure  for  Cissy  as  well  as  his  own,  the  delightful 
surprise  to  Percy,  the  rows  of  stick-sticks  for  his 
uncle.  I  don't  think  it  was  wonderful  that  Ted 
burst  into  tears. 

"  My  poor  boy,"  said  his  mother,  and  then  she 
thought  it  over  to  herself  for  a  little.  She  did  not 
begin  talking  to  Ted  about  how  careless  he  had  been, 
and  that  it  must  be  a  lesson  to  him,  and  so  on,  as 
many  even  very  kind  mothers  are  sometimes  tempted 
to  do,  when,  as  does  happen  now  and  then  in  this 
rather  contrary  world,  very  small  wrongdoings  have 
very  big  results,  —  she  could  not  feel  that  Ted  had 
been  much  to  blame,  and  she  was  quite  sure  it  would 
be  "  a  lesson  to  him,"  without  her  saying  any  more 
about  it.  So  she  just  thought  it  over  quietly,  and 
then  said, 

"  No,  Ted.  I  don't  quite  think  that  would  be 
right.  Your  giving  up  the  seat  would  be  punishing 
others  as  well  as  yourself  —  Cissy  particularly  —  and 


"STATISTICS."  135 

that  would  not  be  right.  I  will  see  that  Jamie  and 
his  brothers  and  sisters  have  something  for  their 
dinner  to-morrow  that  will  please  them  as  much  as 
the  pie,  and  you  must  tell  Newton  to  go  on  with  the 
seat,  and  —  " 

"  But,  mother,"  interrupted  Ted,  "  I  won't  be 
happy  unless  I  pay  it  myself,  the  dinner  I  mean. 
It  wouldn't  be/aiV,  if  I  didn't  —  would  it,  mother? " 
and  he  looked  up  with  his  honest,  anxious  blue  eyes 
in  his  mother's  face,  so  that  she  felt  the  same  wish 
to  stoop  down  and  kiss  him  that  had  made  her  do 
so  long  ago  in  the  street  of  the  little  country  town 
near  their  old  home. 

"  I  was  going  on  to  speak  about  that,"  said  his 
mother.  "  It  will  take  all  your  money  and  a  little 
more  to  pay  Newton,  you  see,  and  you  haven't  any 
more." 

"  No,  mother,  but  if  I  was  to  give  up  my  library 
pennies  ?  "  —  for  Ted  subscribed  a  penny  a  week  to 
a  children's  library  in  the  town,  as  he  had  long  ago 
exhausted  the  home  stores. 

"  That  would  take  a  very  long  time,  and  it  would 
be  a  pity  for  you  to  lose  your  reading,"  said  his 
mother.  "  But  I'll  tell  you  what  —  I  will  count  the 
dinner  as  owing  from  you  to  me,  and  you  will  pay 
it  as  best  you  can,  little  by  little.  For  every  summer 
you  get  presents  from  your  uncles  or  cousins  when 
they  are  with  us.  I  will  count  it  two  shillings  and 
sixpence  —  the  sixpence  for  the  dish,  and  I  know 
you  will  not  forget  to  pay  me." 


136  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

"  No  indeed,  mother,  and  thank  you  so  much," 
said  Ted,  with  a  now  really  lightened  heart.  "  Shall 
I  tell  Jamie  about  the  dinner?  I  could  go  that  way 
when  I  go  back  to  Newton's.  He  will  be  so  pleased. 
His  mother  didn't  scold  him,  but  yet  I  couldn't  help 
being  very  sorry  for  him.  His  face  did  look  so  un- 
happy." 

And  when,  after  dinner,  Ted  ran  off  again,  I  think 
the  pleasure  of  the  good  news  in  store  for  poor 
Jamie  was  quite  as  much  in  his  mind  as  his  own 
errand  to  Newton's. 

The  seat  was  a  great  success.  Newton  came  that 
very  evening  to  measure  it  exactly,  and  Ted  had  the 
satisfaction  of  making  some  suggestions  which  the 
carpenter  thought  very  good  ones,  as  to  the  best  way 
of  fastening  it  firmly.  And  on  Monday  evening  the 
work  was  accomplished.  Never,  surely,  were  two 
birds  in  a  nest  more  happy  than  Ted  and  Cissy, 
when,  for  the  first  time,  they  mounted  up  on  to  their 
airy  throne.  Their  mother,  busy  among  her  flowers, 
was  surprised  by  a  sound  of  soft  singing  over  her 
head,  coming  from  at  first  she  could  not  tell  where. 
She  stood  still  to  listen  —  she  had,  for  the  moment, 
forgotten  about  the  perch  in  the  tree.  But  the 
words  and  the  tune  soon  told  her  who  it  was.  It 
was  Ted  at  his  old  favourite,  "  Home,  sweet  home." 
Sweetly  and  softly  his  boyish  voice  rang  out.  The 
tears  came  into  his  mother's  eyes,  but  she  moved 
away  silently.  She  did  not  want  the  children  to 


"  STATISTICS."  137 

know  she  was  there.  It  seemed  to  take  away  the 
simplicity  of  his  pretty  singing  for  him  to  know  that 
any  one,  even  his  mother,  had  been  listening. 

"  He  is  very  fond  of  music,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  no  doubt  he  has  great  taste  for  it,"  and  the  thought 
gave  her  pleasure.  She  pictured  to  herself  happy 
future  days  when  Ted  and  Cissy  would  be  able  to 
play  and  sing  together  —  when  as  "  big  people,"  the 
brother  and  sister  would  continue  the  tender  friend- 
ship that  she  liked  so  much  to  see. 

Monday  evening  was  too  late  to  begin  the  impor- 
tant paper  for  Uncle  Ted.  But  on  Tuesday  the 
children  were  up  with  the  lark,  armed  with  a  long 
ruled  sheet,  divided  by  lines  across  the  other  way, 
into  what  Ted  called  several  "  compartments,"  a 
pencil  or  two,  for  though  Cissy  could  not  make 
figures,  she  could  make  little  strokes,  each  of  which 
stood  for  a  one  something.  The  words  at  the  head 
of  the  "  compartments  "  comprised  everything  which, 
with  the  slightest  probability,  could  be  expected  to 
journey  along  the  highroad.  Men,  women,  boys,  girls, 
babies  in  perambulators,  babies  in  nurses'  arms ;  old 
women  with  baskets  were  considered  a  separate 
genus,  and  had  a  row  to  themselves ;  carts  with  one 
horse,  waggons  with  two,  donkeys,  dogs,  pigs,  cats, 
wheelbarrows.  And  at  one  side  Ted  carefully 
marked  the  hour  at  which  began  and  ended  the 
"  observations."  For,  alas !  the  children  could  not 
be  all  day  at  their  post,  though  they  did  gravely 


138  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

purpose  that  they  should  take  it  in  turn  to  go  in  to 
dinner,  so  that  no  passers-by  should  be  unrecorded. 
But  that  mother  could  not  agree  to.  Dinner  must 
be  eaten,  and  with  as  much  deliberation  and  pro- 
priety as  usual,  or  else  what  was  an  interest  and  a 
pleasure  would  have  to  be  discouraged.  And  after 
all  it  was  rather  nice  to  have  the  paper  exhibited  and 
commented  upon  as  they  all  sat  round  the  luncheon- 
table,  though  Cissy  looked  as  if  she  were  not  quite 
sure  that  she  should  not  take  offence  for  Ted,  when 
one  of  the  big  people  inquired  why  there  wasn't  a 
row  for  elephants  and  another  for  dancing-bears. 

The  long  summer  afternoon  was  spent  in  the  same 
way.  Never  surely  had  such  a  delightful  occupa- 
tion for  two  small  people  brimming  over  with  life 
and  energy,  been  discovered.  Two  birds  busied  with 
arranging  their  nest  could  not  have  been  more  com- 
pletely content. 

"If  this  goes  on,"  said  the  children's  mother, 
laughing,  when  they  did  condescend  to  come  in  to 
tea,  "  I  think  we  had  better  send  a  mattress  and  a 
pillow  up  to  your  seat,  and  let  you  stay  there  all 
night." 

Ted  and  Cissy  smiled,  and  in  their  hearts  I  rather 
think  they  were  of  opinion  that  what  their  mother 
proposed  would  be  very  nice.  But,  eager  as  they 
were,  they  were  both  very  hungry,  and  it  was  evi- 
dent that  living  in  a  tree  did  not  destroy  their  appe- 
tite, for  the  quantity  of  slices  of  bread  and  butter 


"  STATISTICS."  139 

which  disappeared  would  have  alarmed  any  one  un- 
accustomed to  the  feats  of  little  people  in  that  way. 

And  tea  over,  off  they  set  again.  It  was  almost 
as  if  they  were  away  on  a  visit  somewhere,  the 
house  seemed  so  quiet,  and  the  garden,  so  often  at 
that  time  of  day  the  scene  of  tremendous  romps  in 
which  even  nurse  herself  was  coaxed  to  join,  quite 
deserted.  Unless  —  that  is  to  say  —  you  had  passed 
under  a  certain  tree  and  stood  still  to  listen  to  the 
clatter  going  on  overhead,  though,  thanks  to  the 
leafy  branches,  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen. 

"  Can  there  be  magpies  up  in  that  tree  ?  "  would, 
I  think,  have  been  your  first  idea.  And  then,  listen- 
ing a  little  more  attentively,  you  would  have  come 
to  think  that  whether  human  or  feathered,  they  were 
very  funny  magpies  indeed. 

"  Fifteen,  sixteen,  that  makes.  Hurrah,  sixteen 
dogs  since  ten  o'clock  this  morning.  And,  let's  see, 
seven  old  women  with  baskets,  and  —  " 

"  Them  wasn't  all  old"  corrects  the  small  voice  of 
magpie  number  two  ;  "  Jessie  wif  the  eggs  isn't  old." 

"  Never  mind ;  if  they've  got  baskets  they  should 
be  old,"  replies  Ted.  "  An  old  woman  with  a  basket 
sounds  right.  Then  there's  five  p'rambulators,  oh,  it 
is  a  long  word  to  spell  —  it  goes  right  out  of  its 
place  into  the  other  rows.  I  wish  I'd  just  put 4  babies 
in  p'l-ams.'  And  then  there's  three  pigs  and  horses, 
oh  dear  I  can't  count  how  many.  It's  getting  too 
dark  to  see  the  strokes  on  the  paper.  I  say,  Cissy, 


140  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

just  you  get  down  and  run  in  and  ask  for  two  or 
three  dips.  We  can  stick  them  up  on  the  wall  and 
have  a  beautiful  lighting  up,  and  then  we  can  see 
everybody  that  passes." 

Down  clambered  obedient  Cissy  —  she  was  grow- 
ing very  alert  by  this  time  at  making  her  way  up  and 
down  —  off  she  set  to  the  house  with  her  message. 

"Dips,  dips,"  she  repeated  to  herself.  uTed  says 
I'm  to  ask  for  two  or  three  dips.  I  wonder  what 
dips  is." 

She  had  not  the  slightest  idea,  but  it  never  oc- 
curred to  her  to  do  otherwise  than  exactly  what  her 
brother  had  said.  It  was  a  funny  little  figure  that 
presented  itself  to  the  children's  mother,  in  the 
twilight,  just  as  she  was  putting  away  her  work  and 
thinking  it  was  really  time  for  Ted  and  Cissy  to 
come  in,  a  shawl  wrapped  round  and  tied  behind  over 
her  white  pinafore,  of  which  the  part  that  could  be 
seen  was  by  no  means  as  clean  as  it  might  have  been, 
any  more  than  the  eager  flushed  little  face,  with  its 
bright  dark  eyes  and  wavy  hair  tumbling  over  the 
forehead. 

"  My  dear  Cissy,  what  a  very  dirty  little  girl  you 
are,"  said  her  mother,  laughing.  "  You  really  look 
more  like  a  gipsy  than  anything  else." 

"  Does  dipsies  live  up  trees  ? "  inquired  Cissy 
gravely.  "Trees  is  rather  dirty.  But  oh,  mother, 
Ted  wants  me  to  ask  you  for  two  or  three  dips. 
Please  give  me  zem." 


141 

"  Dips"  repeated  her  mother,  "  what  in  the  world 
does  he  want  dips  for  ?  " 

"Cissy  doesn't  know,"  replied  the  little  girl. 
"  Cissy  doesn't  know  what  dips  is.  Cissy  finks  Ted  said 
he  would  'tick  zem  up  on  ze  wall,  to  make  it  look  pitty." 

Her  mother  was  very  much  amused. 

"  Dips  are  candles,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  Ted 
wants  to  light  up  the  tree." 

Her  words  made  a  light  break  over  Cissy's  face  in 
the  first  place. 

"  Oh  ses,"  said  the  little  maiden,  "  it  is  getting  so 
dark.  Oh  do  give  Ted  some  dips,  dear  mother  — 
do,  do." 

But  not  any  number  of  "  do's  "  would  have  made 
mother  agree  to  so  dangerous  a  proceeding. 

"  My  dear  little  girl,  you  would  certainly  set 
yourselves  on  fire,  and  the  tree  too,"  she  replied. 
"  But  never  mind,"  she  went  on,  seeing  the  corners 
of  Cissy's  mouth  going  down  with  the  thought  of 
Ted's  disappointment,  "  I  will  go  out  with  you  and 
explain  to  Ted." 

Mother  put  a  shawl  over  her  shoulders  and  went 
out  with  her  little  girl.  Some  way  off,  Ted  heard 
them  coming. 

"O  Cis,  have  you  got  the  dips?"  he  cried.  "I 
forgot  to  tell  you  to  bring  some  matches  too.  I've 
had  such  hard  work  to  see,  and  a  lot  of  people  passed. 
I  think  there  was  a  woman  and  two  bo}rs.  I'll  have 
to  mark  them  down,  when  —  " 


142  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

"  I've  come  with  Cissy,  Ted,"  replied  his  mother's 
voice,  to  his  surprise,  "  to  tell  you  that  it  would  really 
be  too  much  of  a  good  thing  to  go  on  with  your  obser- 
vations all  night.  And,  in  the  first  place,  you  would 
certainly  set  yourself  and  Cissy  and  the  tree  on  fire, 
if  I  let  you  have  candles  up  there.  Come  down 
now,  that's  a  good  boy,  and  show  me  your  paper, 
and  we'll  pack  it  up  to  send  to  your  uncle  by 
post." 

"Very  well,  mother,"  said  Ted,  with  his  usual 
cheery  good-nature.  "  I'm  coming.  Here  goes," 
and  in  another  minute  he  was  beside  her.  "  You 
don't  know  what  a  beautiful  long  paperful  I've  got. 
I  don't  want  you  to  pack  it  up  yet,  mother.  Cissy 
and  I  are  going  to  keep  it  on  ever  so  much  longer, 
aren't  we,  Cis  ?  " 

And  chattering  merrily  the  children  went  in  with 
their  mother.  But,  as  she  said  to  their  father,  it 
really  is  to  be  doubted  if  they  would  not  have  stayed 
in  the  tree  all  night,  if  Ted  had  got  his  wish  and 
arranged  a  "  dip  "  illumination  on  the  top  of  the 
wall. 

After  all,  that  day  in  the  tree  was  the  last  of  their 
"  stick-sticks."  The  weather  changed,  and  there  was 
nearly  a  week  of  rain,  and  by  the  time  it  was  over, 
children-like,  Ted  and  Cissy  had  grown  tired  of  the 
rows  of  strokes  representing  old  women  and  donkeys 
and  horses,  and  all  the  rest  of  them ;  the  "  observa- 
tions "  had  lost  their  attraction  for  them.  Still  the 


143 

pleasure  was  not  quite  over,  for  there  was  the  pack- 
ing of  the  big  paper  to  send  to  Uncle  Ted  by  post, 
and  his  letter  of  thanks  in  return.  And  Percy  came 
home  for  the  holidays,  and  greatly  approved  of  the 
nest  in  the  tree.  And  what  the  children  did  not  do 
up  there  —  what  games  they  played,  how  they  were 
by  turns  Robinson  Crusoe  hiding  from  the  savages, 
King  Charles  in  the  oak  at  Boscobel,  or,  quainter 
still,  how  they  all  sometimes  suddenly  turned  into 
squirrels  and  manufactured  for  themselves  the  most 
wonderful  tails  of  old  brush  handles,  and  goodness 
only  knows  what,  which  stuck  straight  up  behind  and 
made  the  climbing  to  the  nest  by  no  means  an  easy 
matter  —  yes  indeed,  what  they  did  not  do  up  in  the 
tree  would  be  difficult  to  tell. 

But  it  comes  into  my  mind  just  now  that  I  have 
never  told  you  anything  of  Ted's  indoor  life.  Hith- 
erto it  has  seemed  all  summer  days  and  gardens,  has 
it  not  ?  And  no  doubt  the  boy's  greatest  happiness 
was  in  outdoor  interests  and  employments.  But  of 
course  it  was  not  always  summer  and  sunshine  for 
Ted,  any  more  than  for  any  one  else  —  and,  Christ- 
mas child  though  he  was,  there  were  wintry  days 
when  even  he  had  to  stay  in  the  house  and  find  work 
and  pleasures  indoors.  For  winter  does  not  mean 
nothing  but  bright  frosty  skies  overhead,  and  crisp 
clean  snow  underfoot.  There  are  dreary  days  of  rain 
and  mist  and  mud,  when  children  are  much  better  at 
home,  and  when  mothers  and  nurses  are  more  thank- 


144  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

ful  than  any  one  not  a  mother  or  nurse  can  imagine, 
to  have  to  do  with  cheerful  contented  little  people, 
who  are  "  good  at  amusing  themselves,"  and  unself- 
ish enough  not  to  worry  every  one  about  them 
because  it  is  a  rainy  day. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A  PEACOCK'S  FEATHER  AND  A  KISS. 

"  We  tried  to  quarrel  yesterday. 
Ah  !  ...  kiss  the  memory  away." 

IN  Ted's  pleasant  home  there  was  a  queer  little 
room  used  for  nothing  in  particular.  It  was  a  very 
little  room,  hardly  worthy  indeed  of  the  name,  but  it 
had,  like  some  small  men  who  have  very  big  minds, 
a  large  window  with  a  most  charming  view.  I 
think  it  was  partly  this  which  made  Ted  take  such 
a  fanc}r  to  this  queer  little  room  in  the  first  place  — 
he  used  to  stand  at  the  window  when  they  first  came 
to  the  house  and  gaze  out  at  the  stretch  of  sloping 
fields,  with  peeps  here  and  there  of  the  blue  river 
fringed  with  splendid  trees,  and  farther  off  still  the 
distant  hills  fading  away  into  the  mysterious  cloudi- 
ness, the  sight  of  which  always  gave  him  a  strange 
feeling  as  if  he  would  like  to  cry  —  Ted  used  to  gaze 
out  of  this  window  for  ever  so  long  at  a  time,  till 
somehow  the  little  room  came  to  be  associated  with 
him,  and  the  rest  of  the  family  got  into  the  way  of 
speaking  of  it  as  his.  And  gradually  an  idea  took 
shape  in  his  mind  which  he  consulted  his  mother 
about,  and  which  she  was  quite  pleased  to  agree  to. 

145 


146  A    CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

Might  he  have  this  little  room  for  his  museum? 
That  was  Ted's  idea,  and  oh  how  eagerly  his  blue 
eyes  looked  up  into  his  mother's  face  for  her  reply, 
and  how  the  light  danced  in  them  with  pleasure 
when  she  said  "yes." 

There  were  shelves  in  the  little  room  —  shelves 
not  too  high  up,  some  of  them  at  least,  for  Ted  to 
arrange  his  curiosities  on,  without  having  to  climb 
on  to  a  chair,  and  even  Cissy,  when  she  was  trusted 
as  a  great  treat  to  dust  some  of  the  treasures,  could 
manage  nicely  with  just  a  footstool.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  tell  you  half  the  pleasure  Ted  got  out 
of  his  museum.  It  was  to  him  a  sort  of  visible  his- 
tory of  his  simple  happy  life,  for  nowhere  did  he  go 
without  bringing  back  with  him  some  curious  stone 
or  shell,  or  bird's  feather,  or  uncommon  leaf  even,  to 
be  placed  in  his  collection,  both  as  a  remembrance 
of  his  visit  and  as  a  thing  of  interest  in  itself. 

There  were  specimens  of  cotton  in  its  different 
stages,  of  wool  too,  from  a  soft  bit  of  fluff  which  Ted 
had  picked  off  a  Welsh  bramble,  to  a  square  inch  of 
an  exquisitely  knitted  Shetland  shawl,  fine  as  a  cob- 
web, which  Ted  had  begged  from  Mabel  when  she 
was  giving  the  remains  of  the  shawl  to  Cissy  for  her 
doll.  There  were  bits  of  different  kinds  of  coal; 
there  was  "Blue  John"  from  a  Derbyshire  cavern, 
and  a  tiny  china  doll  which,  much  charred  and  dis- 
figured, had  yet  survived  the  great  fire  of  Chicago, 
where  one  of  the  children's  uncles  had  passed  by 


147 

not  long  after;  there  was  a  bit  of  black  bread  from 
the  siege  of  Paris ;  there  were  all  manner  of  things, 
all  ticketed  and  numbered,  and  their  description 
neatly  entered  in  a  catalogue  which  lay  on  a  little 
table  by  the  door,  on  which  was  also  to  be  seen 
another  book,  in  which  Ted  requested  all  visitors  to 
the  museum  to  write  their  names,  and  all  the  big 
people  of  the  family  so  well  understood  the  boy's 
pride  and  pleasure  in  his  museum,  that  no  one  ever 
thought  of  making  his  way  into  his  little  room 
without  his  invitation. 

Ted  had  begun  his  museum  some  months  before 
the  great  excitement  of  the  nest  in  the  tree,  but 
the  delights  of  the  long  summer  days  out  of  doors 
had  a  little  put  it  out  of  his  head.  But  the  latter 
part,  as  well  as  the  beginning  of  these  holidays, 
happened  to  be  very  rainy,  and  the  last  fortnight  was 
spent  mostly  by  Percy  and  Ted  in  the  tiny  museum 
room,  where  Percy  helped  Ted  to  finish  the  ticketing 
and  numbering  that  he  had  not  long  before  begun. 
And  Cissy,  of  course,  was  as  busy  as  anybody,  flop- 
ping about  with  an  old  pocket-handkerchief  which 
she  called  her  duster,  and  reproving  the  boys  with 
great  dignity  for  unsettling  any  of  the  trays  she  had 
made  so  "bootily  clean." 

"You  must  try  to  get  some  more  feathers,  Ted," 
said  Percy.  "They  make  such  a  pretty  collection. 
There's  a  fellow  at  our  school  that  has  an  awful  lot. 
He  fastens  them  on  to  cards  —  he's  got  a  bird-of- 


148  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

Paradise  plume,  an  awful  beauty.  Indeed  he's  got 
two,  for  he  offered  to  sell  me  one  for  half-a-crown. 
Wouldn't  you  like  it?" 

"I  should  think  I  would,"  said  Ted,  "but  I  can't 
buy  anything  this  half.  You  know  my  money's 
owing  to  mother  for  that  that  I  told  you  about." 

He  gave  a  little  sigh;  the  bird  of  Paradise  was  a 
tempting  idea. 

"Poor  Ted,"  said  Cissy,  clambering  down  from 
her  stool  to  give  him  a  hug. 

Ted  accepted  the  hug,  but  not  the  pity. 

"No,  Cissy.  I'm  not  poor  Ted  for  that,"  he  said 
merrily.  "It  was  ever  so  kind  of  mother  to  put 
it  all  right,  and  ever  so  much  kinder  of  her  to  do 
it  that  way.  I  shouldn't  have  liked  not  to  pay  it 
myself." 

"I'll  see  if  I  can't  get  that  fellow  to  swop  his  bird 
of  Paradise  for  some  of  my  stamps,  when  I  go  back 
to  school,"  said  Percy. 

"Oh,  thank' you,  Percy,"  said  Ted,  his  eyes  shin- 
ing. 

"Anyway  you  might  have  some  peacocks',"  Percy 
went  on.  "They're  not  so  hard  to  get,  and  they 
look  so  pretty." 

"  Mother's  got  some  screens  made  of  them  on  the 
drawing-room  mantelpiece,"  said  Ted,  "and  one  of 
them's  got  a  lot  of  loose  feathers  sticking  out  at  the 
back  that  are  no  use.  Perhaps  she'd  give  me  one 
or  two.  Then  I  could  make  a  nice  cardful,  with  the 


A  PEACOCK'S  FEATHER  AND  A  KISS.        149 

peacocks'  at  the  corners  and  the  little  ones  in  a  sort 
of  a  wreath  in  the  middle." 

He  looked  at  the  sheet  of  white  paper  on  to  which, 
at  present,  his  feathers  were  fastened.  "Yes,  it 
would  be  very  pretty,"  he  repeated.  Bat  just  then 
the  tea-bell  rang,  and  the  children  left  the  museum 
for  that  day. 

The  boys  were  in  it  the  next  morning,  when  Ted's 
mother  appeared  with  a  rather  graver  face  than  usual. 
She  did  not  come  in,  she  knew  that  Ted  was  putting 
all  in  perfect  order,  and  that  he  did  not  want  her  to 
see  it  till  complete,  so  she  only  slightly  opened  the 
door  and  called  him  out. 

"  Ted, "  she  said  quietly,  but  Ted  saw  that  she  was 
sorry,  "Ted,  do  you  know  anything  of  this?" 

She  held  up  as  she  spoke  a  pretty  and  valuable 
little  china  ornament  which  always  stood  on  the 
drawing-room  mantelpiece.  It  was  broken  —  quite 
spoilt  —  it  could  never  be  the  same  again. 

"Oh  dear,"  exclaimed  Ted,  "what  a  pity!  Your 
dear  little  flower-basket.  I  am  so  sorry.  How  could 
it  have  got  broken  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  his  mother.  "I  found  it 
lying  on  the  floor.  It  seemed  as  if  some  one  had 
knocked  it  over  without  knowing.  You  are  sure 
you  were  not  trying  to  reach  anything  off  the 
mantelpiece  yesterday  evening?" 

"Sure,"  said  Ted,  looking  sorry  and  puzzled. 

"It  stood  just  in  front  of  my  screen  of  peacock 


150  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

feathers,"  his  mother  went  on.  She  did  not  in  the 
very  very  least  doubt  his  assurance,  but  his  manner 
gave  her  the  feeling  that  if  she  helped  his  memory  a 
little,  he  might  be  able  to  throw  some  light  on  the 
mystery. 

"In  front  of  the  peacock-feather  fan,"  he  repeated 
absently. 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother,  "but  do  not  say  anything 
about  it,  Ted.  We  may  find  out  how  it  happened, 
but  I  do  not  like  questioning  every  one  about  it.  It 
gives  the  servants  a  feeling  that  I  don't  trust  them, 
for  they  always  tell  me  if  they  break  anything.  So 
don't  say  anything  more  about  it  to  any  one." 

"No,"  said  Ted.  His  tone  and  manner  were  still 
a  little  puzzled,  as  if  something  was  in  his  mind 
which  he  could  not  make  clear  to  himself,  and  his 
mother,  knowing  that  he  sometimes  was  inclined  to 
take  things  of  the  kind  too  much  to  heart,  made  up 
her  mind  to  think  no  more  about  her  poor  little  vase, 
and  to  treat  its  breakage  as  one  of  the  accidents  we 
have  all  to  learn  to  bear  philosophically  in  daily  life. 
But  though  no  more  was  said,  Ted  did  not  forget 
about  it:  it  worried  and  puzzled  him  behind  other 
thoughts,  as  it  were,  all  day,  and  little  did  he 
or  his  mother  think  who  was  really  the  innocent 
culprit. 

Late  that  night,  just  before  going  to  bed  herself, 
Ted's  mother  glanced  into  his  room,  as  she  often 
did,  to  see  that  the  boy  was  sleeping  peacefully. 


A  PEACOCK'S  FEATHER  AND  A  KISS.        151 

The  light  that  she  carried  she  shaded  carefully,  but 
a  very  wide-awake  voice  greeted  her  at  once. 

"Mother,"  it  said,  "I'm  not  asleep.  Mother,  I  do 
so  want  to  speak  to  you.  I've  not  been  able  to  go  to 
sleep  for  thinking  about  the  little  broken  vase." 

"O  Ted,  .dear,"  said  his  mother,  "don't  mind 
about  it.  It  is  no  use  vexing  oneself  so  much  about 
things  when  they  are  done  and  can't  be  put  right." 

"But,  mother,"  he  persisted,  "it  isn't  quite  that. 
Of  course  I'm  very  sorry  for  it  to  be  broken,  however 
it  happened.  But  what  makes  me  so  uncomfortable 
is  that  I've  begun  to  wonder  so  if  perhaps  I  did  do 
it.  I  know  we  were  all  talking  about  your  peacock- 
feather  screens  yesterday.  I  said  to  Percy  and  Cissy 
there  were  some  loose  ones  in  one  of  them,  and  per- 
haps you'd  give  me  some  for  my  card  of  feathers, 
and  I've  got  a  sort  of  wondering  feeling  whether 
perhaps  I  did  touch  the  screen  and  knocked  down 
the  china  flower-basket  without  knowing,  and  it's 
making  me  so  unhappy,  but  I  didn't  mean  to  hide  it 
from  you  if  I  did  do  it." 

He  looked  up  so  wistfully  that  his  mother's  heart 
felt  quite  sore.  She  considered  a  minute  before  she 
replied,  for  she  was  afraid  of  seeming  to  make  light 
of  his  trouble  or  of  checking  his  perfect  honesty,  and 
yet,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  wise,  and  knew  that 
even  conscientiousness  may  be  exaggerated  and  grow 
into  a  weakness,  trying  to  others  as  well  as  hurtful 
to  oneself. 


152  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

"I  am  sure  you  did  not  mean  to  hide  anything 
from  me,  dear  Ted,"  she  replied,  "and  I  don't  think 
it  is  the  least  likely  that  you  did  break  the  vase. 
But  even  if  you  did,  it  is  better  to  think  no  more 
about  it.  You  answered  me  sincerely  at  the  time, 
and  that  was  all  you  could  do.  We  are  only  human 
beings,  you  now,  dear  Ted,  always  likely  to  make 
mistakes,  even  to  say  what  is  not  true  at  the  very 
moment  we  are  most  anxious  to  be  truthful.  We 
can  only  do  our  best,  and  ask  God  to  help  us.  So 
don't  trouble  any  more,  even  if  we  never  find  out 
how  it  happened." 

Then  she  stooped  and  gave  Ted  an  extra  good- 
night kiss,  and  in  five  minutes  his  loving  anxious 
little  spirit  was  asleep. 

But  the  very  next  day  the  mystery  was  explained. 

"Ted's  newseum  is  bootly  neat,"  Cissy  announced 
at  breakfast-time,  "but  he  wants  some  more  f ewers. 
I  tried  to  get  down  muzzer's  screen  off  the  mantel- 
piece to  see  if  there  was  some  loose  ones,  but  I 
couldn't  reach  it.  Muzzer,  won't  you  give  Ted  some 
loose  ones?" 

Mother  looked  at  Ted,  and  Ted  looked  at  mother. 

"So  you  were  the  mouse  that  knocked  over  my 
little  vase,  Miss  Cissy!"  said  mother.  "Do  you 
know,  dear,  that-  it  was  broken  ?  You  should  not  try 
to  reach  things  down  yourself.  You  will  be  having 
an  accident,  like  'Darling  '  in  the  picture-book,  some 
day,  if  you  don't  take  care." 


"THEY  WEKE  NEATLY  TACKED   ON  TO  THE  FEATHER  CARD, 
WHICH    HAD   A    VERY    FlNE     EFFECT    ON    THE    WALL    OF    THE 

MUSEUM."— p.  153. 


A  PEACOCK'S  FEATHER  AND  A  KISS.        153 

The  corners  of  Cissy's  mouth  went  down,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  said  in  a  very  melancholy 
voice.  "I  only  wanted  to  find  some  loose  fevvers 
for  Ted." 

"I  know  that,  dear,"  said  her  mother.  "Only  if 
you  had  asked  me  you  would  have  got  the  feathers 
without  breaking  my  vase.  Come  with  me  now,  and 
you'll  show  me  what  you  want." 

There  proved  to  be  two  or  three  loose  feathers  as 
Ted  had  said  —  beautiful  rainbow  eyes,  which  would 
not  be  missed  from  the  screen  with  the  careful  way 
in  which  Ted's  mother  cut  them  out,  and  the  chil- 
dren carried  them  off  in  delight.  They  were  neatly 
tacked  on  to  the  feather  card,  which  had  a  very  fine 
effect  on  the  wall  of  the  museum.  And  for  both 
Ted  and  Cissy  there  was  a  little  lesson,  though  the 
two  were  of  different  kinds,  fastened  up  with  the 
feathers  on  the  card. 

Before  long  the  holidays  were  over.  Percy  went 
back  to  school,  and  poor  Ted  hid  himself  for  a  few 
hours,  as  he  always  did  on  these  sad  occasions,  that 
his  red  eyes  might  not  be  seen.  Then  he  came  out 
again,  looking  paler  than  usual,  but  quite  cheerful 
and  bright.  Still  he  missed  Percy  so  much  that  he 
was  not  at  all  sorry  that  his  own  holidays  were  over. 
For  Ted  now  went  early  every  morning  to  a  regular 
big  school  —  a  school  at  which  there  were  so  many 
boys  that  some  little  fellows  of  his  age  might  have 


154  A    CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

felt  frightened  and  depressed.  But  not  so  Ted.  He 
went  on  his  own  cheery  way  without  misgiving. 
The  world  to  his  thinking  was  a  nice  and  happy 
place  —  not  all  sunshine  of  course,  but  very  good  of 
its  kind.  And  school-life,  though  it  too  had  its 
shadows,  was  full  of  interest  and  satisfaction.  Ted 
loved  his  fellows,  and  never  doubted,  in  his  simple 
taking-for-granted  of  things  being  as  they  should  be, 
but  that  he  was  loved  by  them ;  and  how  this  way  of 
looking  out  on  the  world  helped  him  through  its 
difficulties,  how  it  saved  him  from  unreasonable  fears 
and  exaggerated  anxieties  such  as  take  the  bloom  oif 
many  a  child-life,  it  would  be  difficult  for  me  to 
describe.  I  can  only  try  to  put  you  in  the  way  of 
imagining  this  bright  young  life  for  yourselves. 

The  boy  whom,  of  course  only  next  to  his  dear 
Percy,  Ted  loved  best  in  the  world  was,  to  use  his 
own  words,  "a  fellow"  of  about  his  own  age,  whose 
name  was  Rex.  That  is  to  say,  his  short  name;  for 
his  real  one  was  Reginald,  just  as  Ted's  was  Ed- 
mond.  They  had  been  together  at  the  big  school 
from  the  first  of  Ted's  going,  being  about  equal  in 
their  standing  as  to  classes,  though  Rex  was  rather 
the  elder,  and  had  been  longer  at  school.  At  Ted's 
school,  as  at  all  others,  there  were  quarrels  and  fights 
sometimes;  and  many  a  day  he  came  home  with 
traces  of  war,  in  the  shapes  of  bumps  -and  bruises  and 
scratches.  Not  that  the  battles  were  all  quarrels,— 
there  were  plenty  of  good-tempered  scrimmages,  as 


A  PEACOCK'S  FEATHER  AND  A  KISS.        155 

well  as,  occasionally,  more  serious  affrays,  for  boys 
will  be  boys  all  the  world  over.  And,  worse  than 
that,  in  all  schools  there  are  to  be  found  boys  of 
mean  and  tyrannical  spirit,  who  love  to  bully  and 
tease,  and  who  need  to  be  put  down  now  and  then. 
And  in  all  schools,  too,  there  are  boys  of  good  and 
kindly  feelings,  but  of  hasty  and  uncontrolled  temper, 
and  they  too  have  to  be  taught  to  give  and  take,  to 
bear  and  forbear.  And  then,  too,  as  the  best  of  boys 
are  but  boys  after  all,  we  are  still  a  long  way  off 
having  any  reason  to  expect  that  the  best  of  schools 
even  can  be  like  dovecots. 

I  don't  know  that  Ted's  school  was  worse  than 
others  in  these  respects,  and  Ted  himself  was  not  of 
a  quarrelsome  nature,  but  still  in  some  ways  he  was 
not  very  patient.  And  then,  slight  and  rather  deli- 
cate though  he  was,  he  assuredly  had  a  spirit  of  his 
own.  He  couldn't  stand  bullying,  either  of  himself 
or  others,  and  without  any  calculation  as  to  the  odds 
for  or  against  him,  he  would  plunge  himself  into  the 
thick  of  the  fray;  and  but  for  Rex,  who  was  always 
ready  to  back  up  Ted,  I  dare  say  he  would  often 
have  come  off  worse  than  he  did.  As  it  was,  many 
were  the  wounds  that  fell  to  his  share,  and  yet  he 
managed,  by  his  quickness  and  nimbleness,  to  escape 
more  serious  damage. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself,  my 
boy?"  his  mother  said  one  day  not  long  after  the 
grand  doing-up  of  the  museum,  when  Ted  appeared 


156  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

in  her  room  on  his  return  from  school,  to  beg  for 
some  sticking-plaister  and  arnica  lotion.  He  really 
looked  rather  an  object,  and  he  could  not  help  laugh- 
ing as  he  caught  sight  of  his  face  in  the  glass ;  for 
one  eye  was  very  much  swollen,  and  a  long  scratch 
down  his  nose  did  not  add  to  his  beauty. 

"I  am  a  fright,"  he  said.  "But  there's  not  much 
the  matter,  mother.  It  was  only  a  scrimmage  —  we 
were  all  quite  good  friends." 

"But  really,  Ted,"  said  his  mother,  "I  think  you 
must  curb  your  warlike  tastes  a  little.  Some  day 
you  may  really  get  hurt  badly." 

"No  fear,  mother,"  he  said.  "Besides,  after  all,  a 
boy  wouldn't  be  worth  much  who  couldn't  fight 
sometimes,  would  he  ?  " 

"Sometimes,"  said  his  mother.  "Where  was  Rex 
to-day  —  wasn't  he  beside  you?" 

Ted's  face  clouded  a  little. 

"Rex  was  in  a  bad  humour  to-day.  He  wouldn't 
play,"  Ted  replied. 

"Rex  in  a  bad  humour!"  repeated  his  mother. 
"Surely  that's  very  uncommon." 

Ted  did  not  reply,  and  his  mother  did  not  ask  him 
any  more,  but  she  noticed  that  the  cloud  had  not 
entirely  disappeared,  and  the  next  morning  it  was 
not  quite  with  his  usual  springing  steps  that  the  boy 
set  off  to  school.  Rex's  house  was  on  the  same 
road;  most  days  the  boys  met  each  other  at  the  gate 
and  went  on  together,  but  this  time  no  Rex  was  to 


A  PEACOCK'S  FEATHER  AND  A  KISS.        157 

be  seen.  Either  he  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  go 
very  early,  or  he  was  not  }ret  ready.  Ted  cast  a 
glance  towards  the  path,  down  which  he  was  used  to 
see  his  friend  running,  satchel  over  his  shoulders,  to 
join  him  —  then  he  walked  on  slowly. 

"I'm  not  going  to  wait  for  him  if  he  doesn't  care 
to  come,"  he  said  to  himself;  and  when  he  got  to 
school  he  was  glad  he  had  not  done  so,  for  there  was 
Rex  already  in  the  schoolroom,  and  at  his  desk  busy 
writing,  though  it  wanted  some  minutes  to  school- 
time. 

"Good-morning,  Rex,"  said  Ted. 

"Good-morning,"  replied  Rex;  but  that  was  all. 
Whether  or  not  he  had  been  in  a  bad  humour  the 
day  before,  he  was  certainly  not  in  a  pleasant  frame 
of  mind  towards  Ted  to-day.  The  morning  passed 
much  less  cheerfully  than  usual,  for  when  all  was 
happy  between  the  boys,  though  they  could  not  speak 
to  each  other  in  school  hours,  there  were  many  pleas- 
ant little  ways  in  which  they  could  make  each  other 
feel  that  his  friend  was  next  door.  Ted's  lessons 
suffered  from  his  preoccupation,  and,  altogether, 
things  seemed  to  go  the  wrong  way.  But  Ted  did 
not  seem  able  to  care.  "  What  was  the  matter  with 
Rex?"  That  was  the  one  question  always  in  his 
mind. 

School  over,  the  boys  could  not  help  meeting. 
Their  roads  lay  together,  and  both  had  too  much 
self-respect  to  wish  to  make  an  exhibition  of  the 


158  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

want  of  good-feeling  between  them  to  the  other  boys. 
So  they  set  off  as  if  nothing  were  the  matter,  and 
walked  some  little  way  in  silence.  At  last  Ted 
could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  old  fellow  ? "  he 
said.  "  Why  wouldn't  you  play  with  me  yesterday  ?  " 

Rex  looked  up. 

"I  couldn't,"  he  said.  "I  had  got  my  French 
exercise  all  blotted,  and  I  wanted  to  copy  it  over 
without  telling  any  one;  that  was  why  I  wouldn't 
come  out.  So  now  you  see  if  it  was  true  what  you 
said  of  me  to  Hatchard." 

"  What  did  I  say  of  you  to  Hatchard?  "  cried  Ted. 

"  What  f  Why,  what  he  told  me  you  said  —  that  I 
was  a  mean  sneak,  and  that  I  wouldn't  play  because 
I  wasn't  as  good  at  it  as  you." 

"I  never  said  so,  and  you  know  I  never  did," 
retorted  Ted,  his  cheeks  flaming. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I'm  telling  a  lie?" 
cried  Rex  in  his  turn. 

"  Yes  I  do,  if  you  said  I  said  that,"  exclaimed  Ted. 
And  then  —  how  it  happened  I  don't  think  either  of 
the  boys  could  have  told  —  their  anger  grew  from 
words  into  deeds.  Rex  hit  Ted,  and  Ted  hit  at  him 
again !  But  one  blow  —  one  on  each  side  —  and  they 
came  to  their  senses.  Ted  first,  when  he  saw  the 
ugly  mark  his  clenched  fist  had  left  on  his  friend's 
face,  when  he  felt  the  hot  glow  on  his  own. 

"  O  Rex,"  he  cried,  "  O  Rex!    How  can  we  be  like 


A  PEACOCK'S  FEATHER  AND  A  KISS.        159 

that  to  each  other?  It's  like  Cain  and  Abel.  O 
Rex,  I'm  so  sorry!  " 

And  Rex  was  quick  to  follow. 

"O  Ted,  I  didn't  mean  it.  Let's  forget  we  ever 
did  it.  I  do  believe  you  never  said  that.  Hatchard's 
a  mean  sneak  himself.  I  only  didn't  want  to  tell 
you  that  it  was  you  who  blotted  my  exercise  by  mis- 
take when  you  passed  my  desk.  I  thought  you'd  be 
so  sorry.  But  it  would  have  been  better  to  tell  you 
than  to  go  on  like  this." 

Rex's  explanation  was  too  much  for  Ted.  Ten 
years  old  though  he  was,  the  tears  rushed  to  his 
eyes,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  could  never  forgive  himself. 

He  told  his  mother  all  about  it  that  evening.  He 
could  not  feel  happy  till  he  did  so,  and  even  before 
he  had  said  anything  she  knew  that  the  little  tug  to 
her  sleeve  and  the  whispered  "Mother,  I  want  to 
speak  to  you,"  was  coming.  And  even  when  he  had 
told  her  all  about  the  quarrel  and  reconciliation,  he 
hung  on,  looking  as  if  there  were  something  more 
to  tell. 

"What  is  it,  my  boy?"  said  his  mother;  "have 
you  anything  more  to  say?" 

Ted's  face  flushed. 

"Yes,  mother,"  he  said.  "I  wanted  to  ask  you 
this.  When  Rex  and  I  had  settled  it  all  right 
again,  we  still  felt  rather  unhappy.  It  did  seem  so 
horrid  to  have  hit  each  other  like  that,  it  seemed  to 
leave  a  mark.  So,  mother,  we  wanted  to  take  it 


160  A    CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

quite  away,  and  we  kissed  each  other.  And  we  felt 
quite  happy,  only  —  was  it  a  very  babyish  thing  to 
do?  Was  it  unmanly,  mother?" 

His  mother  drew  him  towards  her  and  looked  lov- 
ingly into  his  anxious  face. 

"Unmanly,  my  boy?  No  indeed,"  she  said,  "it 
was  kind  and  good,  and  kindness  and  goodness  can 
never  be  unmanly." 

And  Ted,  quite  at  rest  now,  went  off  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  X. 

SOME  KAINY   ADVENTURES. 

"  Wildly  the  winds  of  heaven  began  to  blow, 

****** 
Whilst  from  the  jealous,  unrelenting  skies 
The  inevitable  July  down-pour  came." 

ANOTHER  winter  came  and  went.  Ted  had 
another  birthday,  which  made  him  eleven  years  old. 
Another  happy  Christmas  time  —  this  year  of  the 
old-fashioned  snowy  kind,  for  even  in  November 
there  was  skating,  and  Ted  skated  like  a  Dutchman ; 
and  the  child-life  in  the  pleasant  home  went  on  its 
peaceful  way,  with  much  of  sunshine  and  but  few 
clouds.  Narcissa,  too.  was  growing  a  big  girl.  She 
could  say  all  her  words  clearly  now,  without  lisping 
or  funny  mistakes,  though,  as  she  was  the  youngest 
bird  in  the  nest,  I  am  not  sure  but  that  some  of  the 
big  people  thought  this  rather  a  pity !  And  then 
Avhen  the  frost  and  the  snow  were  done  with,  the  ever 
new  spring  time  came  round  again,  gradually  grow- 
ing into  the  brilliant  summer;  and  this  year  the 
children's  hearts  rejoiced  even  more  than  usual,  for 
a  great  pleasure  was  before  them.  This  year  they 
were  to  spend  the  holidays  with  their  parents  in 
a  quite,  quite  country  place,  and  many  were  the 

161 


162  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD, 

delightful  fancies  and  dreams  that  they  made  about 
it,  even  while  it  was  some  distance  off. 

"  I  do  love  summer,"  said  Cissy  one  day.  They 
were  standing  at  the  window  one  May  morning, 
waiting  for  their  father  and  mother  to  come  to 
breakfast.  It  was  a  Sunday  morning,  so  there  was 
no  hurrying  off  to  school.  "  Don't  you  love  summer, 
Ted?" 

"Yes,  summer's  awfully  jolly,"  he  replied.  "But 
so's  winter.  Just  think  of  the  snowballing  and  the 
skating.  I  do  hope  next  winter  will  be  a  regular 
good  one,  for  I  shall  be  ever  so  much  bigger  I 
expect,  and  I'll  try  my  best  to  beat  them  all  at 
skating." 

His  face  and  eyes  beamed  with  pleasure.  Just 
then  his  mother  came  in;  she  had  heard  his  last 
words. 

"  Next  winter !  "  she  said.  "  That's  a  long  time 
off.  Who  knows  what  may  happen  before  then  ?  " 

She  gave  a  little  sigh ;  Ted  and  Cissy  looked  at 
each  other.  They  knew  what  mother  was  thinking 
of.  Since  last  winter  a  great  grief  had  come  to  her. 
She  had  lost  one  who  had  been  to  her  what  Ted  was 
to  Cissy,  and  the  sorrow  was  still  fresh.  Ted  and 
Cissy  drew  near  to  their  mother.  Ted  stroked  her 
hand,  and  Cissy  held  up  her  rosy  mouth  for  a  kiss. 

"  Dear  mother,"  they  said  both  together,  and  then 
a  little  silence  fell  over  them  all.  Cissy's  thoughts 
were  sad  as  she  looked  at  Ted  and  pictured  to  her- 


SOME  RAINY   ADVENTURES.  163 

self  how  terrible  it  would  be  to  lose  a  brother  as 
dear  as  he,  and  Ted  was  gazing  up  at  the  blue  sky 
and  wondering  —  wondering  about  the  great  mystery 
which  had  lately,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  seemed 
to  come  near  him.  What  was  dying  ?  Why,  if  it  meant, 
as  his  father  and  mother  told  him,  a  better,  and 
fuller,  and  nobler  life  than  this,  which  he  found  so 
good  and  happy  a  thing,  why,  if  it  meant  living 
nearer  to  God,  understanding  Him  better,  why  should 
people  dread  it  so,  why  speak  of  it  as  so  sad  ? 

"  I  don't  think,"  thought  little  Ted  to  himself,  "  1 
don't  think  I  should  be  afraid  of  dying.  God  is  so 
kind,  I  couldn't  fancy  being  afraid  of  Him;  and 
heaven  must  be  so  beautiful,"  for  the  sunny  bright- 
ness of  the  May  morning  seemed  to  surround  every- 
thing. But  his  glance  fell  on  his  mother  and  sister, 
and  other  thoughts  rose  in  his  mind ;  the  leaving 
them  —  ah  yes,  that  was  what  made  death  so  sad  a 
thing ;  and  he  had  to  turn  his  head  away  to  hide  the 
tears  which  rose  to  his  eyes. 

There  was,  as  his  mother  had  said,  a  long  time  to 
next  winter  —  there  seemed  even,  to  the  children,  a 
long  time  to  next  summer,  which  they  were  hoping 
for  so  eagerly.  And  an  interruption  came  to  Ted's 
school-work,  for  quite  unexpectedly  he  and  Cissy 
went  away  to  London  for  a  few  weeks  with  their 
parents,  and  when  they  came  back  there  was  only  a 
short  time  to  wait  for  the  holidays.  If  I  had  space  I 
would  like  to  tell  you  about  this  visit  to  London,  and 


164  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

some  of  the  interesting  things  that  happened  there 
—  how  the  children  had  rather  a  distressing  adven- 
ture the  first  evening  of  their  arrival,  for  their  father 
and  mother  had  to  go  off  with  their  aunt  in  a  hurry 
to  see  a  sick  friend,  and,  quite  by  mistake,  their  nurse, 
not  knowing  the  children  would  be  alone,  went  out 
with  a  message  about  a  missing  parcel,  and  poor 
Cissy,  tired  with  the  journey  and  frightened  by  the 
dark,  rather  gloomy  house  and  the  strange  servants, 
had  a  terrible  fit  of  crying,  and  clung  to  Ted  as  her 
only  protector  in  a  manner  piteous  to  see.  And  Ted 
soothed  and  comforted  her  as  no  one  else  could  have 
done.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  (though  it  grieved  their 
mother  too,  to  find  that  poor  Cissy  had  been  fright- 
ened) to  see  the  little  girl  in  Ted's  arms,  where  she 
had  fallen  asleep,  the  tears  still  undried  on  her 
cheeks;  and  the  next  morning,  when  she  woke  up 
fresh  and  bright  as  usual,  she  told  her  mother  that 
Ted  had  been,  oh  so  kind,  she  never  could  be  fright- 
ened again  if  Ted  was  there. 

There  were  many  things  to  surprise  and  interest 
the  children,  Ted  especially,  in  the  great  world  of 
London,  of  which  now  he  had  this  little  peep.  But 
as  I  have  promised  to  tell  you  about  the  summer  I 
must  not  linger. 

When  they  went  back  from  town  there  were  still 
eight  or  nine  weeks  to  pass  before  the  holidays,  and 
Ted  worked  hard,  really  very  hard,  at  school  to  gain 
the  prize  he  had  been  almost  sure  of  before  the  in- 


SOME  RAINY  ADVENTtJKES.  165 

terruption  of  going  away.  He  did  not  say  much 
about  it,  but  his  heart  did  beat  a  good  deal  faster 
than  usual  when  at  last  the  examinations  were  over 
and  the  prize-giving  day  came  round;  and  when  all 
the  successful  names  were  read  out  and  his  was  not 
among  them,  I  could  not  take  upon  myself  to  say  that 
there  was  not  a  tear  to  wink  away,  even  though 
there  was  the  consolation  of  hearing  that  he  stood 
second-best  in  his  class.  And  Ted's  good  feeling  and 
common  sense  made  him  look  quite  bright  and  cheer- 
ful when  his  mother  met  him  with  rather  an  anxious 
face. 

"  You're  not  disappointed  I  hope,  Ted,  dear,  are 
you  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  have  not  taken  quite  as  good 
a  place  as  usual,  and  I  did  think  you  might  have  had 
a  prize.  But  you  know  I  am  quite  pleased,  and  so  is 
your  father,  for  we  are  satisfied  you  have  done  your 
best,  so  you  must  not  be  disappointed." 

"  I'm  not,  mother,"  said  Ted  cheerily,  —  "  I'm  not 
really,  for  you  know  I  am  second,  and  that's  not  bad, 
is  it  ?  Considering  I  was  away  and  all  that." 

And  his  mother  felt  pleased  at  the  boy's  good  sense 
and  fair  judgment  of  himself  —  for  there  had  some- 
times seemed  a  danger  of  Ted's  entire  want  of  vanity 
making  him  too  timid  about  himself. 

What  a  happy  day  it  was  for  Ted  and  Cissy  when 
the  real  packing  began  for  the  summer  expedition  ! 
It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  any  good,  and  I 
suppose  it  is  by  this  old  saying  explained  how  it  is 


166  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

that  packing,  the  horror  of  mothers  and  aunts  and  big 
sisters,  not  to  speak  of  nurses  and  maids,  should  be 
to  all  small  people  the  source  of  such  delight. 

"  See,  Ted,"  said  Cissy,  "  do  let's  carry  down  some 
of  these  boxes.  There's  the  one  with  the  sheets  and 
towels  in,  quite  ready,"  and  the  children's  mother 
coming  along  the  passage  and  finding  them  both  tug- 
ging with  all  their  might  at  really  a  very  heavy 
trunk,  was  reminded  of  the  day  —  long  ago  now  - 
in  the  mountain  home,  when,  setting  off  for  the 
picnic,  wee  Ted  wanted  so  much  to  load  himself 
with  the  heaviest  basket  of  all ! 

And  at  last,  thanks  no  doubt  to  these  energetic 
efforts  in  great  part,  the  packing  was  all  done ;  the 
last  evening,  then  the  last  night  came,  and  the 
excited  children  went  to  sleep  to  wake  ever  so  much 
earlier  than  usual  to  the  delights  of  thinking  the 
day  had  come ! 

It  was  a  long  and  rather  tiring  railway  journey, 
and  when  it  came  to  an  end  there  was  a  very  long 
drive  in  an  open  carriage,  and  by  degrees  all  houses 
and  what  Ted's  father  called  "  traces  of  civilisation," 
-  which  puzzled  Cissy  a  good  deal  —  were  left 
behind. 

"  We  must  be  getting  close  to  the  moors,"  said 
he,  at  which  the  children  were  delighted,  for  it  was 
on  the  edge  of  these  great  moors  that  stood  the 
lonely  farm-house  that  was  to  be  their  home  for 
some  months.  But  just  as  their  father  said  this, 


SOME    RAINY    ADVENTURES.  167 

the  carriage  stopped,  and  they  were  told  they  must 
all  get  down  —  they  were  at  the  entrance  to  a  wood 
through  which  there  was  no  cart  or  carriage  road, 
only  a  footpath,  and  the  farm-house  stood  in  a  glen 
some  little  way  on  the  other  side  of  this  wood.  It 
was  nearly  dark  outside  the  wood,  inside  it  was  of 
course  still  more  so,  so  dark  indeed  that  it  took  some 
care  and  management  to  find  one's  way  at  all.  The 
children  walked  on  quietly,  Ted  really  enjoying  the 
queerness  and  the  mystery  of  this  adventure,  but 
little  Narcissa,  though  she  said  nothing,  pressed 
closer  to  her  mother,  feeling  rather  "  eerie,"  and 
some  weeks  after  she  said  one  day,  "I  don't  want 
ever  to  go  home  again  because  of  passing  through 
that  dark  wood." 

But  once  arrived,  the  pleasant  look  of  everything 
at  the  farm-house,  and  the  hearty  welcome  they 
received  from  their  host  and  hostess,  the  farmer  and 
his  wife,  made  every  one  feel  it  had  all  been  worth 
the  journey  and  the  trouble.  And  the  next  morning, 
when  the  children  woke  to  a  sunny  summer  day  in 
the  quaint  old  house,  and  looked  out  on  all  sides  on 
the  lovely  meadows  and  leafy  trees,  with  here  and 
there  a  peep  of  the  gleaming  river  a  little  farther 
down  the  glen,  and  when,  near  at  hand,  they  heard 
the  clucking  of  the  hens  and  the  mooing  of  the 
calves  and  the  barking  of  the  dogs,  and  all  the  de- 
lightful sounds  of  real  farm-life,  I  think,  children, 
you  will  not  need  me  to  try  to  tell  you  how  happy 


168  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

our  children  felt.  The  next  few  days  were  a  sort 
of  bewilderment  of  interests  and  pleasures  and  sur- 
prises—  everything  was  so  nice  and  new  —  even  the 
funny  old-fashioned  stoneware  plates  and  dishes 
seemed  to  Ted  and  Cissy  to  make  the  dinners  and 
teas  taste  better  than  anything  they  had  ever  eaten 
before.  And  very  soon  they  were  as  much  at  home 
in  and  about  the  farm-house  as  if  they  had  lived 
there  all  their  lives,  —  feeding  the  calves  and  pigs, 
hunting  for  eggs,  carrying  in  wood  for  Mrs.  Crosby 
to  help  her  little  niece  Polly,  a  small  person  not 
much  older  than  Cissy,  but  already  very  useful  in 
house  and  farm  work.  One  day,  when  they  were 
busy  at  this  wood-carrying,  a  brilliant  idea  struck 
them. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  fun,"  said  Ted,  "to  go  to  the 
wood  —  just  the  beginning  of  it,  you  know  —  and 
gather  a  lot  of  these  nice  little  dry  branches ;  they 
are  so  beautiful  for  lighting  fires  with  ?  " 

Cissy  agreed  that  it  would  be  great  fun,  and 
Polly,  who  was  with  them  at  the  time,  thought,  too, 
that  it  would  be  very  nice  indeed ;  and  then  a  still 
better  idea  struck  Ted.  "Suppose,"  he  said,  "that 
we  were  to  go  to-morrow  morning,  and  take  our 
luncheon  with  us.  Wouldn't  that  be  nice  ?  We 
could  pack  it  in  a  basket  and  take  it  on  the  little 
truck  that  we  get  the  wood  in,  and  then  we  could 
bring  back  the  little  truck  full  of  the  dry  branches." 

The  proposal  was  thought  charming,  and  mother 


SOME  KAIKY  ADVENTURES.  169 

was  consulted;  and  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Crosby 
was  busy  betimes,  hunting  up  what  she  could  give 
to  her  "  honeys  "  for  their  picnic,  and  soon  the  three 
set  off,  pulling  the  truck  behind  them,  and  on  the 
truck  a  basket  carefully  packed  with  a  large  bottle 
of  fresh  milk,  a  good  provision  of  bread  and  butter, 
a  fine  cut  of  home-made  cake,  and  three  splendid 
apple  turnovers.  Could  anything  be  nicer?  The 
sun  was  shining,  as  it  was  right  he  should  shine  on 
so  happy  a  little  party,  as  they  made  their  way  up 
the  sloping  field,  through  a  little  white  gate  opening 
on  to  a  narrow  path  skirting  the  foot  of  the  hilL 
where  the  bracken  grew  in  wild  luxuriance,  and 
the  tall  trees  overhead  made  a  pleasant  shade  down 
to  the  little  beck,  whose  chatter  could  be  faintly 
heard.  And  so  peaceful  and  sheltered  was  the 
place,  that,  as  the  children  passed  along,  bright-eyed 
rabbits  stopped  to  peep  at  them  ere  they  scudded 
away,  and  the  birds'  hopped  fearlessly  across  the  path, 
nay,  the  squirrels  even,  sitting  comfortably  among 
the  branches,  glanced  down  at  the  three  little  figures 
without  disturbing  themselves,  and  an  old  owl  blinked 
at  them  patronisingly  from  his  hole  in  an  ancient 
tree-trunk.  And  bye-and-bye  as  the  path  grew  more 
rugged,  Polly  was  deputed  to  carry  the  basket,  for 
fear  of  accidents,  for  Cissy  pulling  in  front  and  Ted 
pushing  and  guiding  behind,  found  it  as  much  as 
they  could  do  to  get  the  truck  along.  How  they 
meant  to  bring  it  back  when  loaded  with  branches  I 


170  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

don't  know,  and  as  things  turned  out,  the  question 
did  not  arise.  The  truck  and  the  basket  and  the 
children  reached  their  destination  safely ;  they  chose 
a  nice  little  grassy  corner  under  a  tree  very  near  the 
entrance  to  the  big  wood,  and  after  a  very  short 
interval  of  rest  from  the  fatigues  of  their  journey,  it 
was  suggested  by  one  and  agreed  to  by  all  that  even 
if  it  were  rather  too  early  for  real  luncheon  or  dinner 
time,  there  was  no  reason  why,  if  they  felt  hungry, 
they  should  not  unpack  the  basket  and  eat !  No 
sooner  said  than  done. 

"  We  shall  work  at  gathering  wood  all  the  better 
after  we've  had  some  refreshment,"  observed  Ted 
sagely,  and  the  little  girls  were  quite  of  his  opinion. 
And  the  rabbits  and  the  owls  and  the  squirrels  must, 
I  think,  have  been  much  amused  at  the  quaint  little 
party,  the  spice-cake  and  apple-turnover  collation 
that  took  place  under  the  old  tree,  and  at  the  merry 
words  and  ringing  laughter  that  echoed  through  the 
forest. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  the  children's  mother,  with  an 
after-thought  of  possible  risk  to  them  from  the  damp 
ground,  made  her  way  along  the  path  and  soon  dis- 
covered the  little  group.  She  had  brought  with  her 
a  large  waterproof  cloak  big  enough  for  them  all  to 
sit  on  together,  but  it  was  too  late,  for  the  refection 
was  over;  the  basket,  containing  only  the  three 
plates  and  the  three  tin  mugs,  propped  up  between 
Ted  and  Cissy,  toppled  over  with  the  start  the  chil- 


SOME    RAINY    ADVENTURES.  171 

dren  gave  at  the  sound  of  their  mother's  voice,  and  a 
regular  "  Jack  and  Jill "  clatter  down  the  slope  was 
the  result.  The  children  screamed  with  delight  and 
excitement  as  they  raced  after  the  truant  mugs  and 
plates,  and  their  mother,  thinking  that  her  staying 
longer  might  cause  a  little  constraint  in  the  merri- 
ment, turned  to  go,  just  saying  cheerfully,  "  Chil- 
dren, I  have  brought  my  big  waterproof  cloak  for 
you  to  sit  on,  but  as  your  feast  is  over  I  suppose 
you  won't  need  it.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
next?" 

"  O  mother,  we're  just  going  to  set  to  work,"  Ted's 
voice  replied ;  "  we're  having  such  fun." 

"Well,  good-bye  then.  I  am  going  a  walk  with 
your  father,  but  in  case  of  a  change  of  weather, 
though  it  certainly  doesn't  look  like  it,  I'll  leave 
the  cloak." 

She  turned  and  left  them.  An  hour  or  two  later, 
when  she  came  home  to  the  farm-house  and  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  up  at  the  sky,  it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  her  remark  about  the  weather  had  been  a 
shadow  of  coming  events.  For  the  bright  blue  sky 
had  clouded  over,  a  slight  chilly  breeze  ruffled  the 
leaves  as  if  in  friendly  warning  to  the  birds  and  the 
butterflies  to  get  under  shelter,  and  before  many 
moments  had  passed  large  heavy  drops  began  to  fall, 
which  soon  grew  into  a  regular  downpour.  What  a 
changed  world ! 

"What  will  the  children  do?"  was  the  mother's 


172  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

first  thought  as  she  watched  it.  "  It  is  too  heavy  to 
last,  and  fortunately  there  is  no  sign  of  thunder 
about.  I  don't  see  that  there  is  anything  to  be  done 
but  to  wait  a  little ;  they  are  certain  to  be  under 
shelter  in  the  wood,  and  any  one  going  for  them 
would  be  drenched  in  two  minutes." 

So  she  did  her  best  to  wait  patiently  and  not  to 
feel  uneasy,  though  several  times  in  the  course  of  the 
next  half-hour  she  went  to  the  window  to  see  if  there 
were  no  sign  of  the  rain  abating.  Alas,  no !  As 
heavily  as  ever,  and  even  more  steadily,  it  fell. 
Something  must  be  done  she  decided,  and  she  was 
just  thinking  of  going  to  the  kitchen  to  consult  Mrs. 
Crosby,  when  as  she  turned  from  the  window  a  curi- 
ous object  rolling  or  slowly  hobbling  down  the  hill- 
side caught  her  view.  That  was  the  way  the  chil- 
dren would  come  —  what  could  that  queer  thing  be  ? 
It  was  not  too  high,  but  far  too  broad  to  be  a  child, 
and  its  way  of  moving  was  a  sort  of  jerky  waddle 
through  the  bracken,  very  remarkable  to  see.  What- 
ever it  was,  dwarf  or  goblin,  it  found  its  way  diffi- 
cult to  steer,  poor  thing,  for  there,  with  a  sudden 
fly,  over  it  went  altogether  and  lay  for  a  moment 
or  two  struggling  and  twisting,  till  at  last  it  man- 
aged to  get  up  again  and  painfully  strove  to  pursue 
its  way. 

The  children's  mother  called  their  nurse. 

"Esther,"  she  said,  "I  cannot  imagine  what  that 
creature  is  coming  down  the  road.  But  it  is  in 


SOME   RAINY   ADVENTURES.  173 

trouble  evidently.  Run  off  and  see  if  you  can  help." 
Off  ran  kind-hearted  Esther,  and  soon  she  was  re- 
warded for  her  trouble.  For  as  she  got  near  to  the 
queer-shaped  bundle,  she  saw  two  pairs  of  eyes  peer- 
ing out  at  her,  from  the  two  arm-holes  of  the  water- 
proof cloak,  and  in  a  moment  the  mystery  was 
explained.  Ted,  in  his  anxiety  for  the  two  girls, 
had  wrapped  them  up  together  in  the  cloak  which  his 
mother  had  left,  and  literally  "bundled"  them  off, 
with  the  advice  to  get  home  as  quickly  as  possible, 
while  he  followed  with  his  loaded  truck,  the  wood 
covered  as  well  as  he  could  manage  with  leafy 
branches  which  he  tore  down. 

But  "  possible  "  was  riot  quickly  at  all  in  the  case 
of  poor  Cissy  and  her  companion.  Polly  was  of  a 
calm  and  placid  nature,  with  something  of  the  resig- 
nation to  evils  that  one  sees  in  the  peasant  class  all 
over  the  world ;  but  Narcissa,  impulsive  and  sensitive, 
with  her  dainty  dislike  to  mud,  and  her  unaccustomed- 
ness  to  such  adventures,  could  not  long  restrain  her 
tears,  and  under  the  waterproof  cloak  she  cried  sadly, 
feeling  frightened  too  at  the  angry  gusts  of  rain  and 
wind  which  sounded  to  her  like  the  voices  of  ogres 
waiting  to  seize  them  and  carry  them  off  to  some 
dreadful  cavern. 

The  summit  of  their  misfortunes  seemed  reached 
when  they  toppled  over  and  lay  for  a  moment  or 
two  helplessly  struggling  on  the  wet  ground.  But 
oh,  what  delight  to  hear  Esther's  kind  voice,  and 


174  A   CHKISTMAS    CHILD. 

how  Cissy  clung  to  her  and  sobbed  out  her  woes ! 
She  was  more  than  half  comforted  again  by  the  time 
they  reached  the  farm-house,  and  just  as  mother 
was  considering  whether  it  would  not  be  better  to 
undress  them  in  the  kitchen  before  the  fire  and 
bring  down  their  dry  clothes,  Master  Ted,  "  very 
wet,  yes  very  wet,  oh  very  wet  indeed,"  made  his 
appearance,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  a  general  look  of 
self-satisfaction. 

"Did  they  get  home  all  right?  "  he  said,  cheerily. 
"  It  was  a  good  thing  you  brought  the  cloak,  mother. 
And  the  wood  isn't  so  wet  after  all." 

And  an  hour  or  two  later,  dried  and  consoled  and 
sitting  round  the  kitchen  table  for  an  extra  good 
tea  to  which  Mrs.  Crosby  had  invited  them,  all  the 
children  agreed  that  after  all  the  expedition  had  not 
turned  out  badly. 

But  the  weather  had  changed  there  was  no  doubt ; 
for  the  time  at  least  the  sunny  days  were  over.  The 
party  in  the  farm-house  had  grown  smaller  too,  for 
the  uncles  had  had  to  leave,  and  even  the  children's 
father  had  been  summoned  away  unexpectedly  to 
London.  And  a  day  or  two  after  the  children's 
picnic  their  mother  stood  at  the  window  rather 
anxiously  looking  out  at  the  ever-falling  rain. 

"  It  really  looks  like  as  if  it  would  never  leave  off," 
she  said,  and  there  was  some  reason  for  her  feel- 
ing distressed.  She  had  hoped  for  a  letter  from 
the  children's  father  that  day,  and  very  probably  it 


"  MASTEB  TED,  VERY  WET  INDEED,  MADE  HIS  APPEARANCE 
WITH  ROSY  CHEEKS  AND  A  GENERAL  LOOK  or  SELF-SATISFAC- 
TION."—p.  174. 


SOME   KAINY   ADVENTURES.  175 

was  lying  at  the  two-miles-and-a-half-off  post-office, 
waiting  for  some  one  to  fetch  it.  For  it  was  not 
one  of  the  postman's  days  for  coming  round  by  the 
farm-house  ;  that  only  happened  twice  a  week,  but 
hitherto  this  had  been  of  little  consequence  to  the 
farm-house  visitors.  Their  letters  perhaps  had  not 
been  of  such  importance  as  to  be  watched  for  with 
much  anxiety,  and  in  the  fine  weather  it  was  quite  a 
pleasant  little  walk  to  the  post-office  by  the  fields 
and  the  stepping-stones  across  the  river.  But  all  this 
rain  had  so  swollen  the  river  that  now  the  stepping- 
stones  were  useless ;  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
take  the  long  round  by  the  road ;  and  this  added  to 
the  difficulty  in  another  way,  for  it  was  not  by  any 
means  every  day  that  Mr.  Crosby  or  his  son  were 
going  in  that  direction,  or  that  they  could,  at  this 
busy  season,  spare  a  man  so  long  off  work.  So  the 
children's  mother  could  not  see  how  she  was  to  get 
her  letter  if  this  rain  continued  —  at  least  not  for 
several  days,  for  the  old  postman  had  called  yester- 
day —  he  would  not  take  the  round  of  the  Skensdale 
farm  for  other  three  or  four  days  at  least,  and  even 
then,  the  post-office  people  were  now  so  accustomed 
to  some  of  the  "gentry"  calling  for  their  letters 
themselves,  that  it  was  doubtful,  not  certain  at  least, 
if  they  would  think  of  giving  them  to  the  regular 
carrier.  And  with  some  anxiety,  for  her  husband 
had  gone  to  London  on  business  of  importance,  Ted's 
mother  went  to  bed. 


176  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

Early  next  morning  she  was  awakened  by  a  tap 
at  .the  door,  a  gentle  little  tap.  She  almost  fancied 
she  had  heard  it  before  in  her  sleep  without  being 
really  aroused. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  and  a  very  business-like 
figure,  which  at  the  first  glance  she  hardly  recog- 
nised, made  its  appearance.  It  was  Ted ;  dressed  in 
waterproof  from  head  to  foot,  cloak,  leggings,  and 
all,  he  really  looked  ready  to  defy  the  weather  —  a 
sort  of  miniature  diver,  for  he  had  an  oilskin  cap  on 
his  head  too,  out  of  which  gleamed  his  bright  blue 
eyes,  full  of  eagerness  and  excitement. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  I  haven't  wakened  you 
too  soon.  I  got  up  early  on  purpose  to  see  about 
your  letters.  It's  still  raining  as  hard  as  ever,  and 
even  if  it  left  off,  there'd  be  no  crossing  the  stepping- 
stones  for  two  or  three  days,  Farmer  Crosby  says. 
And  he  can't  spare  any  one  to-day  to  go  to  the  post. 
I'm  the  only  one  that  can,  so  I've  got  ready,  and 
don't  you  think  I'd  better  go  at  once?" 

Ted's  mother  looked  out  of  the  window.  Oh,  how 
it  was  pouring !  She  thought  of  the  long  walk  — 
the  two  miles  and  a  half  through  the  dripping  grass 
of  the  meadows,  along  the  muddy,  dreary  road,  and 
all  the  way  back  again ;  and  then  the  possibility  of 
the  swollen  river  having  escaped  its  bounds  where 
the  road  lay  low,  came  into  her  mind  and  frightened 
her.  For  Ted  was  a  little  fellow  still  —  only  eleven 
and  a  half,  and  slight  and  delicate  for  his  age.  And 


SOME  RAINY  ADVENTURES.  177 

then  she  looked  at  him  and  saw  the  eager  readiness  in 
his  eyes,  and  remembered  that  he  was  quick-witted 
and  careful,  and  she  reflected  also  that  he  must 
learn,  sooner  or  later,  to  face  risks  and  difficulties  for 
himself. 

"  Ted,  my  boy,"  she  said,  "  it's  very  nice  of  you  to 
have  thought  of  it,  and  I  know  it  would  be  a  great 
disappointment  if  I  didn't  let  you  go.  But  you'll 
promise  me  to  be  very  careful  —  to  do  nothing  rash 
or  unwise ;  if  the  river  is  over  the  road,  for  instance, 
or  there  is  the  least  danger,  you'll  turn  back?  " 

"Yes,  mother,  I'll  be  very  careful,  really,"  said 
Ted.  "  I'll  do  nothing  silly.  Good-bye,  mother ; 
thank  you  so  much  for  letting  me  go.  I've  got  my 
stick,  but  there's  no  use  taking  an  umbrella." 

And  off  he  set ;  his  mother  watching  him  from  the 
window  as  far  as  she  could  see  him,  trudging  bravely 
along  —  a  quaint  little  figure  —  through  the  pouring 
rain.  For  more  than  a  mile  she  could  see  him  mak- 
ing his  way  along  the  meadow  path,  gradually  lessen- 
ing as  the  distance  increased,  till  a  little  black  speck 
was  all  she  could  distinguish,  and  then  it  too  disap- 
peared round  the  corner. 

And  an  hour  or  so  later,  there  were  warm,  dry 
boots  and  stockings  before  the  fire,  which  even  in 
August  the  continued  rain  made  necessary,  and  a 
"beautiful"  breakfast  of  hot  coffee,  and  a  regular 
north-country  rasher  of  bacon,  and  Mrs.  Crosby's 
home-made  bread  and  butter,  all  waiting  on  the  table. 


178  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

And  Ted's  mother  took  up  her  post  again  to  watch 
for  the  reappearance  of  the  tiny  black  speck,  which 
was  gradually  to  grow  into  her  boy.  It  did  not  tarry. 
As  soon  as  was  possible  it  came  in  sight. 

"  How  quick  he  has  been  —  my  dear,  clever,  good 
little  Ted  ! "  his  mother  said  to  herself.  And  you 
may  be  sure  that  she,  and  Cissy  too,  were  both  at  the 
door  to  meet  the  little  human  water-rat,  dripping, 
dripping  all  over,  like  "  Johnny  Head-in-air  "  in  old 
"  Struwelpeter,"  but  with  eyes  as  bright  as  any 
water-rat's,  and  cheeks  rosy  with  cold  and  exercise 
and  pleasure  all  mixed  together,  who,  before  he  said 
a  word,  held  out  the  precious  letter. 

"  Here  it  is,  mother  —  from  father,  just  as  you  ex- 
pected. I  do  hope  it's  got  good  news." 

How  could  it  bring  other  ?  Mother  felt  before  she 
opened  it  that  it  could  not  contain  any  but  good 
news,  nor  did  it.  Then  she  just  gave  her  brave 
little  boy  one  good  kiss  and  one  hearty  "  Thank  you, 
Ted."  For  she  did  not  want  to  spoil  him  by  over- 
praise, or  to  take  the  bloom  off  what  he  evidently 
thought  nothing  out  of  the  common,  by  exaggerating 
it. 

And  Ted  enjoyed  his  breakfast  uncommonly,  I  can 
assure  you.  He  was  only  eleven  and  a  half.  I  think 
our  Ted  showed  that  he  had  a  sweet  and  brave  spirit 
of  his  own  ;  —  don't  you,  children  ? 


CHAPTER   XL 

"IT'S   ONLY  I,  MOTHER." 

"  How  well  my  own  heart  knew 
That  voice  so  clear  and  true." 

THE  summer  in  the  wolds,  so  long  looked  forward 
to,  was  over.  It  had  been  very  happy,  in  spite  of 
the  rain  having  given  the  visitors  at  the  Skensdale 
farm-house  rather  more  of  his  company  than  they 
had  bargained  for,  and  it  left  many  happy  memories 
behind  it. 

And  the  coming  home  again  was  happy  too.  The 
days  were  beginning  to  "  draw  in  "  as  people  say,  and 
"  home,"  with  its  coal-fires  —  which,  though  not  so 
picturesque,  are  ever  so  much  warmer  than  wood 
ones,  I  assure  you  —  its  well-closing  doors  and 
shutters,  its  nice  carpets  and  curtains,  was  after  all 
a  better  place  for  chilly  days  and  evenings  than  even 
the  most  interesting  of  farm-houses.  And  Ted  had 
his  school-work  to  think  of  too ;  he  was  anxious  to 
take  a  very  good  place  at  the  next  examinations,  for 
he  was  getting  on  for  twelve,  and  "some  day"  he 
knew  that  he  would  have  to  go  out  into  the  world 
as  it  were,  on  his  own  account  —  to  go  away,  that  is 
to  say,  to  a  big  boarding-school,  as  Percy  had  done 
before  him. 

179 


180  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

He  did  work  well,  and  he  was  rewarded,  and  this 
Christmas  was  a  very  happy  one.  There  was  plenty 
of  skating,  and  Ted  got  on  famously.  Indeed,  he 
learnt  to  be  so  clever  at  it,  that  Cissy  used  to  feel 
quite  proud,  when  people  admired  him  for  it,  to 
think  that  he  was  her  brother,  though  Ted  himself 
took  it  quite  simply.  Skating  was  to  him  the  greatest 
pleasure  he  knew.  To  feel  oneself  skimming  along 
by  one's  own  will,  and  yet  with  a  power  beyond 
oneself,  was  delightful  past  words. 

"  I  do  think,"  thought  Ted  to  himself,  one  clear 
bright  frosty  day,  when  the  sky  was  as  blue,  almost, 
as  in  summer,  "  I  do  think  it's  as  nice  as  flying." 

And  then  looking  up,  as  he  skimmed  along,  at 
the  beautiful  sky  which  winter  or  summer  he  loved 
so  much,  there  came  over  him  that  same  strange 
sweet  wonder  —  the  questioning  he  could  not  have 
put  into  words,  as  to  whether  the  Heaven  he  often 
thought  of  in  his  dreamy  childish  way,  was  really 
up  there,  and  what  it  was  like,  and  what  they  did 
there.  It  must  be  happy  and  bright  —  happier  and 
brighter  even  than  down  here,  because  there,  in  some 
way  that  Ted  knew  that  neither  he  nor  the  wisest 
of  mankind  could  explain,  one  would  be  nearer  God. 
But  yet  it  was  difficult  to  understand  how  it  could 
be  much  brighter  and  happier  than  this  happy  life 
down  below.  There  was  no  good  trying  to  under- 
stand, Ted  decided.  Grod  understood,  and  that  was 
enough.  And  as  He  had  made  us  so  happy  here, 


"IT'S   ONLY   I,   MOTHER."  181 

He  might  be  trusted  to  know  what  was  best  for  us 
there.  Only  —  yes,  that  was  the  greatest  puzzle  of 
all,  far  more  puzzling  than  anything  else  —  everybody 
was  not  happy  here  —  alas  !  no,  Ted  knew  enough  to 
know  that  —  many,  many  were  not  happy ;  many, 
many  were  not  good,  and  had  never  even  had  a 
chance  of  becoming  so.  Ah,  that  was  a  puzzle ! 

"  When  I'm  a  man,"  thought  Ted  —  and  it  was  a 
thought  that  came  to  him  often  —  "I'll  try  to  do 
something  for  those  poor  boys  in  London." 

For  nothing  had  made  more  impression  on  Ted, 
during  his  stay  in  London,  than  the  sight  of  the 
so-called  "  City  Arabs,"  and  all  he  had  heard  about 
them.  He  had  even  written  a  story  on  the  subject, 
taking  for  his  hero  a  certain  "  Tom,"  whose  adven- 
tures and  misadventures  were  most  thrilling ;  end- 
ing, for  Ted  liked  stories  that  ended  well,  with  his 
happy  adoption  into  a  kind-hearted  family,  such  as 
it  is  to  be  wished  there  were  more  of  to  be  found  in 
real  life  !  I  should  have  liked  to  tell  you  this  story, 
and  some  day  perhaps  I  shall  do  so,  but  not,  I  fear, 
in  this  little  book,  for  there  are  even  a  great  many 
things  about  Ted  himself  which  I  shall  not  have 
room  for. 

There  were  other  pleasures  besides  skating  this 
Christmas  time.  Among  these  there  was  a  very 
delightful  entertainment  given  by  some  of  Ted's 
father's  and  mother's  friends  to  a  very  large  party, 
both  old  and  young.  It  was  a  regular  Christmas 


182  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

gathering  —  so  large  that  the  great  big  old-fashioned 
ball-room  at  the  "  Red  Lion  "  was  engaged  for  the 
purpose. 

Dear  me,  what  a  great  many  scenes  this  old  ball- 
room had  witnessed !  Election  contests  without  end, 
during  three-quarters  of  a  century  and  more ;  balls 
of  the  old-world  type,  when  the  gentlemen  had 
powdered  wigs  and  ribbon-tied  "  queues,"  which,  no 
doubt,  you  irreverent  little  people  of  the  nineteenth 
century  would  call  "  pig-tails  "  ;  and  my  Lady  Grizzle 
from  the  hall  once  actually  stuck  in  the  doorway,  so 
ponderous  was  her  head-gear,  though  by  dint  of  good 
management  her  hoop  and  furbelows  had  been  got 
through.  And  farther  back  still,  in  the  Roundhead 
days,  when  —  so  ran  the  legend  —  a  party  of  rollick- 
ing cavaliers,  and  a  company  commanded  by  one 
Captain  Holdfast  Armstrong,  passed  two  succeed- 
ing nights  in  the  Red  Lion's  ball-room,  neither — so 
cleverly  did  the  cautious  landlord  manage  —  having 
the  least  idea  of  the  other's  near  neighbourhood. 

But  never  had  the  old  ball-room  seen  happier  faces 
or  heard  merrier  laughter  than  at  this  Christmas 
party ;  and  among  the  happy  faces  none  was  brighter 
than  our  Ted's.  He  really  did  enjoy  himself,  though 
one  of  the  youngest  of  the  guests,  for  Cissy  had  been 
pronounced  too  young,  but  had  reconciled  herself  to 
going  to  bed  at  her  usual  hour,  by  Ted's  promise  to 
tell  her  all  about  it  the  next  day.  And  besides  his 
boy  friends  —  Percy,  of  course,  who  was  home  for 


"IT'S   ONLY   I,  MOTHER."  183 

the  holidays,  and  Rex,  and  several  others  —  Ted  had 
another  companion  this  evening  whom  he  was  very 
fond  of.  This  was  a  little  girl  about  his  own  age, 
named  Gertrude,  the  daughter  of  a  friend  of  his 
father's.  I  have  not  told  you  about  her  before, 
because,  I  suppose,  I  have  had  so  many  things  to 
tell,  that  I  have  felt  rather  puzzled  how  to  put  them 
all  in  nicely,  especially  as  they  are  all  simple,  every- 
day things,  with  nothing  the  least  wonderful  or  re- 
markable about  them.  Gertrude  was  a  very  dear 
little  girl;  she  almost  seemed  to  Ted  like  another 
kind  of  sister.  He  had  Mabel,  and  Christine  her 
sister,  as  big  ones,  and  Cissy  as  his  own  particular 
little  one,  and  Gertrude  seemed  to  come  in  as  a  sort 
of  companion  sister,  between  the  big  ones  and  the 
little  one.  Ted  was  very  rich  in  friends,  you  see, 
friends  of  all  kinds.  He  used  often  to  count  them 
up  and  say  so  to  himself. 

Well,  this  evening  of  the  big  Christmas  party  was, 
as  I  said,  one  of  the  happiest  he  had  ever  known. 
All  his  friends  were  there  —  all  looking  as  happy  as 
happy  could  be. 

"  When  I'm  a  man,"  thought  Ted  to  himself,  "  I'd 
like  to  give  parties  like  this  every  Christmas,"  and  as 
he  looked  round  the  room  his  eyes  gleamed  with 
pleasure.  Gertrude  was  standing  beside  him  —  they 
were  going  to  be  partners  in  a  country-dance,  which 
was  a  favourite  of  Ted's.  Just  then  his  mother  came 
up  to  where  they  were  standing. 


184  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

"  Ted,  my  boy,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  home  now. 
It  is  very  late  for  you  already  —  half -past  twelve. 
The  others,  however,  are  staying  later,  but  I  think 
it  is  quite  time  for  you  and  me  to  be  going,  don't 
you?" 

Ted's  face  clouded  —  a  most  unusual  thing  to 
happen. 

"Gertrude  isn't  going  yet,"  he  said,  uand  Rex  and 
his  brothers ;  they're  staying  later.  O  mother,  must 
I  come  now  ?  " 

His  mother  hesitated.  She  was  always  reluctant 
to  disappoint  the  children  if  it  could  be  helped,  yet, 
on  the  other  hand,  she  was  even  more  anxious  not  to 
spoil  them.  But  the  sight  of  Ted's  eager  face  carried 
the  day. 

"  Ah  well,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  I  suppose  I  must 
be  indulgent  for  once  and  go  home  without  you.  So 
good-night,  Ted — you  will  come  with  the  others  — 
I  hope  it  won't  be  very  late." 

As  she  turned  away,  it  struck  her  that  Ted's  face 
did  not  look  altogether  delighted. 

"Poor  Ted,"  she  said  to  herself,  "he  doesn't  like  to 
see  me  go  away  alone."  But  hoping  he  would  enjoy 
himself,  and  that  he  would  not  be  too  tired  "to- 
morrow morning,"  she  went  home  without  any  mis- 
giving, and  she  was  not  sorry  to  go.  She  found  the 
Christmas  holidays  and  all  they  entailed  more  fa- 
tiguing than  did  the  children,  for  whom  all  these 
pleasant  things  "  grew  "  without  preparation. 


"IT'S    ONLY    I,   MOTHER."  185 

It  was  a  rather  dark  night  —  so  thought  Ted's 
mother  to  herself  as  she  glanced  out  of  her  window 
for  a  moment  before  drawing  the  curtains  close  and 
going  to  bed  —  all  the  house  was  shut  up,  and  all 
those  who  had  stayed  at  home  fast  asleep  by  this 
time,  and  it  had  been  arranged  that  the  others  should 
let  themselves  in  with  a  latch-key.  Ted's  mother 
felt,  therefore,  rather  surprised  and  a  little  startled 
when  she  heard  a  bell  ring ;  at  first  she  could  hardly 
believe  that  she  was  not  mistaken,  and  to  be  quite 
sure  she  opened  the  window  and  called  out,  "  Is  there 
any  one  there  ?  "  There  was  half  a  moment's  silence, 
then  some  one  came  out  a  little  from  under  the  porch, 
where  he  had  been  standing  since  ringing  the  bell, 
and  a  well-known  voice  replied  —  how  clearly  and 
brightly  its  young  tones  rose  up  through  the  frosty 
air  — 

"  It  is  only  I,  mother.  I  thought  I'd  rather  come 
home  after  all." 

"  You,  Ted,"  she  replied  ;  —  "  you,  and  alone  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother.  I  thought  somehow  you'd  like 
better  to  have  me,  so  I  just  ran  home." 

"And  weren't  you  frightened,  Ted?"  she  said  a 
little  anxiously,  but  with  a  glad  feeling  at  her  heart ; 
"  weren't  you  afraid  to  come  through  the  lonely 
streets,  and  the  road,  more  lonely  still,  outside  the 
town  ?  For  it  is  very  dark,  and  everything  shut  up 
—  weren't  you  afraid  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  mother  —  not  a  bit,"  he  replied,   "only 


186  A   CHEISTMAS   CHILD. 

just  when  I  had  left  all  the  houses  I  did  walk  a  little 
faster,  I  think.  But  I'm  so  glad  I  came,  if  you're 
pleased,  mother." 

And  when  his  mother  had  opened  the  door  and 
let  him  in  and  given  him  a  good-night  kiss  even 
more  loving  than  usual,  Ted  went  to  bed  and  to 
sleep  with  a  light  happy  heart,  and  his  mother,  as 
she  too  fell  asleep,  thanked  God  for  her  boy. 

******** 

I  must  now,  I  think,  children,  ask  you  to  pass  over 
with  me  nearly  a  whole  year  of  Ted's  life.  These 
holidays  ended,  came,  by  slow  degrees  that  year,  the 
always  welcome  spring ;  then  sunny  summer  again, 
a  bright  and  happy  summer  this,  though  spent  at  my 
little  friends'  own  home  instead  of  at  the  Skensdale 
farm-house ;  then  autumn  with  its  shortening  days 
and  lengthening  evenings,  gradually  shortening  and 
lengthening  into  winter  again ;  till  at  last  Christmas 
itself,  like  the  familiar  figure  of  an  old  friend,  whom, 
just  turning  the  corner  of  the  road  where  we  live,  we 
descry  coming  to  visit  us,  was  to  be  seen  not  so  far 
off. 

Many  things  had  happened  during  this  year, 
which,  though  all  such  simple  things,  I  should  like 
to  tell  you  of  but  for  the  old  restrictions  of  time  and 
space.  And  indeed  I  have  to  thank  you  for  having 
listened  to  me  so  long,  for  I  blame  myself  a  little  for 
not  having  told  you  more  plainly  at  the  beginning 
that  it  was  not  a  regular  "  story "  I  had  to  tell  you 


"IT'S    ONLY   I,    MOTHER."  187 

in  the  "  carrots  "  coloured  book  this  year,  but  just 
some  parts,  simple  and  real,  of  a  child-life  that  I  love 
to  think  of.  And  I  would  have  liked  to  leave  it 
here  —  for  some  reasons  that  is  to  say  —  or  I  would 
have  liked  to  tell  how  Ted  grew  up  into  such  a  man 
as  his  boyhood  promised  —  honest-hearted,  loving, 
and  unselfish,  and  as  happy  as  a  true  Christmas  child 
could  not  but  be.  But,  dears,  I  cannot  tell  you  this, 
for  it  was  not  to  be  so.  Yet  I  am  so  anxious  that 
the  little  book  I  have  tried  to  write  in  such  a  way 
that  his  happy  life  and  nature  should  be  loved  by 
other  children — I  am  so  anxious  that  the  ending  of 
this  little  book  should  not  seem  to  you  a  sad  one,  at 
Christmas  time  too  of  all  times,  that  I  find  it  a  little 
difficult  to  say  what  has  to  be  said.  For  in  the  truest 
sense  the  close  of  my  book  is  not  sad.  I  will  just  tell 
it  simply  as  it  really  was,  trusting  that  you  will 
know  I  love  you  all  too  well  to  wish  to  throw  any 
cloud  over  your  bright  faces  and  thoughts. 

Well,  as  I  said,  this  year  had  brought  many  little 
events,  some  troubles  of  course,  and  much  good,  to 
our  Ted.  He  had  grown  a  good  deal  taller,  and 
thinner  too,  and  he  never,  even  as  a  tiny  toddler, 
could  have  been  called  fat !  But  he  was  well  and 
strong,  and  had  made  good  progress  at  school  and 
good  progress  too  in  other  ways.  He  was  getting 
on  famously  at  cricket  and  football,  and  was  a  first- 
rate  croquet-player,  for  croquet  was  then  in  fashion. 
And  the  museum  had  not  been  neglected;  it  had 


188  A   CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

really  grown  into  a  very  respectable  and  interesting 
museum,  so  that  not  only  Ted's  own  people  and  near 
friends  were  pleased  to  see  it,  but  even  his  parents' 
friends,  and  sometimes  others,  again,  who  happened 
to  be  visiting  them,  would  ask  the  little  collector  to 
admit  them.  I  really  think  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  if  more  boys  took  to  having  museums ;  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  for  them,  for  nothing  can  be 
more  amusing  and  interesting  too,  and  a  very  good 
thing  for  their  friends,  especially  in  bad  weather  or 
in  holiday-time,  when  now  and  then  the  hours  hang 
heavily  on  these  young  people's  hands,  and  one  is 
inclined  to  wish  that  some  fancy  work  for  boys  could 
be  invented.  Ted's  museum  had  grown  very  much, 
and  was  always  a  great  resource  for  him  and  for 
Cissy  too,  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  her  tastes  were  rather 
boyish. 

His  library  had  grown  too.  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  many  nice  books  he  had,  and  still  less  could  I 
tell  you  how  he  treasured  them.  When,  through 
much  service,  some  of  them  grew  weak  in  the  back, 
he  would,  though  reluctantly,  consent  to  have  them 
re-bound ;  and  he  had  a  pretty,  and  to  my  mind  a 
touching,  way  of  showing  his  affection  for  these  'old 
friends,  which  I  never  heard  of  in  any  other  child. 
Before^a  book  of  his  went  to  be  bound  he  would 
carefully  —  tenderly  I  might  almost  say  —  cut  off  the 
old  cover  and  lay  it  aside,  and  among  the  many 
sweet  traces  left  by  our  boy  —  but  I  did  not  mean 


"IT'S   ONLY   I,   MOTHER."  189 

to  say  that,  only  as  it  came  naturally  of  itself  I  will 
leave  it  —  few  went  more  to  his  mother's  heart  than 
to  find  in  one  of  his  drawers  the  packet  carefully 
tied  up  of  his  dear  books'  old  coats. 

Nothing  gave  Ted  so  much  pleasure  as  a  present 
of  a  book.  This  Christinas  he  had  set  his  heart  on 
one,  and  Christmas  was  really  coming  so  near  that 
he  had  begun  to  think  of  presents,  and  to  write  out, 
as  was  his  habit,  a  list  of  all  the  people  in  the  house, 
putting  opposite  the  name  of  each  the  present  he  had 
reason  to  think  would  be  most  acceptable.  The  list 
ended  in  a  modest-looking  "  self,"  and  opposite  "  self  " 
was  written  "  a  book."  But  all  the  other  presents 
would  have  to  be  thought  over  and  consulted  about 
with  mother  —  all  except  hers  of  course,  which  in 
its  turn  would  have  to  be  discussed  with  his  father  or 
Mabel  perhaps  —  ever  so  many  times,  before  it  came 
to  the  actual  buying. 

One  Sunday  —  it  was  about  three  weeks  to  Christ- 
mas by  this  time  —  the  head  master  of  Ted's  school, 
who  was  also  a  clergyman,  mentioned  after  the  usual 
service  that  he  wished  to  have  a  special  thanksgiving 
service  this  year  for  the  good  health  that  had  been 
enjoyed  by  the  boys  this  u  half."  It  had  been 
almost  exceptionally  good,  he  said ;  and  he  himself, 
for  one,  and  he  was  sure  every  one  connected  with 
the  school  would  feel  the  same,  was  very  thankful 
for  it. 

Ted's  mother  and   Mabel,  who  were  both,  as  it 


190  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

happened,  at  the  school  chapel  service  that  afternoon, 
glanced  at  their  boy  when  this  announcement  was 
made.  They  knew  well  that,  despite  his  merry 
heart,  Ted  was  sensitive  to  things  that  do  not  affect 
all  children,  and  they  were  not  surprised  to  see  his 
cheeks  grow  a  little  paler.  There  was  something  in 
the  thought  of  this  solemn  thanksgiving,  in  which 
he  was  to  take  part,  that  gave  him  a  little  of  the 
same  feeling  as  he  had  had  long  ago  in  the  grand  old 
church,  when  he  looked  up  to  the  lofty  roof,  shrouded 
in  a  mystery  of  dim  light  his  childish  eyes  could  not 
pierce,  and  the  sudden  carillon  broke  out  as  if  sung 
by  the  angels  in  heaven. 

And  a  little  chill  struck  to  his  mother's  heart; 
she  knew  the  service  was  a  good  and  fitting  ac- 
knowledgment of  God's  care,  and  yet  a  strange 
feeling  went  through  her,  for  which  she  blamed  her- 
self, almost  like  that  of  the  poor  Irishwomen,  who, 
when  any  one  remarks  on  the  beauty  and  healthiness 
of  their  children,  hasten  to  cross  themselves  and  to 
murmur  softly  "  In  a  good  hour  be  it  spoken."  For 
human  nature,  above  all  mother  nature,  is  the  same 
all  the  world  over  ! 

But  on  their  way  home  she  and  Mabel  talked  it 
over,  and  decided  that  it  was  better  to  say  nothing 
about  it  to  Ted. 

"  It  would  only  deepen  the  impression  and  make 
him  nervous,"  said  Mabel  wisely. 

A  day  or  two  later  —  a  damp,  rainy  day  it  had 


"IT'S   ONLY   I,  MOTHER."  191 

been,  there  were  a  good  many  such  about  this  time 
—  Ted's  mother,  entering  the  drawing-room  in  the 
evening,  heard  some  one  softly  singing  to  himself, 
gently  touching  the  piano  at  the  same  time.  It  was 
already  dusk,  and  she  went  in  very  quietly.  The 
little  musician  did  not  hear  her,  and  she  sat  down 
in  silence  for  a  moment  to  listen,  for  it  was  Ted,  and 
the  song  in  his  sweet,  clear  tones  —  tones  with  a 
strange  touch  of  sadness  in  them  like  the  church 
bells,  —  was  "Home,  sweet  home." 

It  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes. 

"  Ted,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  O  mother,"  he  said,  "  I  didn't  know  you  were 
there." 

"  But  you  don't  mind  me,"  she  said. 

Ted  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  mother,"  he  said,  frankly. 
"  It  isn't  as  if  I  could  sing,  you  know.  But  I  can't 
even  try  to  do  it  when  anybody's  there.  Is  it  silly, 
mother  ?  " 

"  It's  very  natural,"  she  said,  kindly.  "  But  if  it 
gives  me  pleasure  to  hear  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  gently. 

"  And  when  you're  a  man  I  hope  and  think  you 
may  have  a  nice  voice." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  again,  rather  absently. 

Something  in  his  tone  struck  his  mother ;  it 
sounded  tired. 

"  You're  quite  well,  Ted,  aren't  you  ?  "  she  said. 


192  A    CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

"  Oh  yes,  mother  —  just  a  very  little  tired.  It's 
been  such  a  rainy  day;  it  isn't  like  Christmas 
coming  so  soon,  is  it?  There's  no  snow  and  no 
skating." 

"  No,  dear." 

"  There  was  no  snow  the  Christmas  I  was  born, 
was  there,  mother?  " 

"  No,  dear,"  said  his  mother  again. 

Ted  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"  You're  going  to  Rex's  to-night ;  it  is  his  party, 
isn't  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  but  I  don't  seem  to  care  much 
to  go." 

"But  you're  quite  well,  I  think,"  said  his  mother 
cheerfully.  "  It  would  be  unkind  not  to  go  when 
they  are  all  expecting  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ted.     "  It  would  be." 

So  he  went  off  to  get  ready ;  and  his  mother  felt 
pleased,  thinking  the  dull  weather  had,  for  a  wonder, 
affected  his  spirits,  and  that  the  merry  evening  with 
his  friends  would  do  him  good. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   WHITE   CROSS. 

"  It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be, 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere. 

The  lily  of  a  day 

Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fade  and  die  that  night 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light ; 
In  small  proportion  we  just  beauties  see, 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be." 

Early  Eipe.  —  BEN  JONSON. 

IT  seemed  as  if  she  had  been  right.  Ted  came 
home  with  bright  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks,  and  said 
they  had  had  an  "  awfully  "  merry  evening.  And 
his  mother  went  to  bed  with  an  easy  mind. 

But  the  next  morning  she  felt  less  happy  again, 
for  Ted  was  evidently  not  well.  He  was  not  very 
ill,  but  just  not  very  well,  and  he  hung  about  in  an 
uninterested,  unsettled  way,  quite  unlike  his  usual 
busy  briskness. 

"  He  excites  himself  too  much  when  he  goes  out, 
I  think,"  said  his  father;  "we  really  shall  have  to 
leave  off  ever  letting  him  go  out  in  the  evening 
unless  we  are  there  ourselves ; "  and  he  looked  a 

193 


194  A    CHRISTMAS    CHILD. 

little  anxiously  at  Ted  as  he  spoke,  though  the  boy 
had  not  heard  what  he  said. 

But  again  this  slight  anxiety  passed  by.  Then 
came  a  change  in  the  weather,  and  a  sudden  frost 
set  in.  Ted  seemed  to  revive  at  once,  and  when 
he  heard  that  there  was  to  be  a  whole  holiday  for 
skating,  no  one  was  more  eager  about  it  than  he. 
And,  a  little  against  her  own  feelings,  his  mother  let 
him  go. 

"You  must  be  careful,  Ted,"  she  said;  "you  are 
not  yet. looking  as  well  as  usual.  And  the  ice  can- 
not be  very  firm.  Indeed,  I  almost  doubt  its  bear- 
ing at  all.  A  bath  in  icy  water  would  not  do  you 
any  good  just  now." 

But  Ted  promised  to  be  careful,  and  his  mother 
knew  she  could  trust  him.  Besides,  several  big  boys 
were  to  be  there,  who  would,  she  knew,  look  after 
him.  So  Ted  went,  and  came  home  saying  it  had 
been  as  usual  "  awfully  jolly " ;  but  he  did  look 
tired,  and  owned  himself  rather  so,  even  though 
well  enough  to  go  out  again  in  the  evening  with  the 
others,  and  to  be  one  of  the  merriest  at  what  the 
children  called  "a  penny  reading"  together,  at 
which  each  in  turn  of  the  little  party  of  friends 
read  or  repeated  or  acted  some  story  or  piece  of 
poetry  for  the  amusement  of  the  others.  And  once 
again,  but  this  was  the  last  time  she  could  do  so, 
Ted's  mother  felt  able  to  throw  off  the  slight  vague 
anxiety  which  had  kept  coming  and  going  for  the 


THE   WHITE   CROSS.  195 

last  few  days  about  her  little  boy,  and  to  go  to  sleep 
with  an  easy  mind. 

But  the  next  morning,  to  his  own  and  her  disap- 
pointment, he  woke  "  tired  "  again.  Only  tired  —  he 
complained  of  nothing  else,  but  he  said  he  wished 
he  need  not  go  to  school.  And  that  was  so  unlike 
Ted. 

"  Need  I  go,  mother  ?  "  he  asked  gently. 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"It  seems  such  a  pity,  dear  —  so  near  the  ex- 
aminations too.  And  sometimes,  you  know,  when 
you  haven't  felt  quite  well  in  the  morning  you  have 
come  back  quite  right  again." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Ted,  and  he  went  off  cheerfully 
enough. 

But  when  he  came  back  he  was  not  all  right  as 
his  mother  had  hoped ;  the  "  tiredness  "  was  greater, 
and  he  seemed  to  have  caught  cold,  and  the  next 
morning,  after  a  restless  night,  there  was  no  longer 
any  doubt  that  Ted  was  ill.  Our  dear  little  Ted  — 
how  quickly  illness  does  its  work  —  above  all  with 
children !  Almost  before  one  has  realised  its  pres- 
ence the  rosy  cheeks  are  pale  and  the  bright  eyes 
dimmed ;  the  sturdy  legs  grow  weak  and  trembling, 
and  the  merry  chatter  ceases.  Ah  dear  !  what  a  sad, 
strange  hush  comes  over  a  house  where  "  one  of  the 
children  "  is  ill. 

The  hush  and  the  sadness  came  but  gradually. 
Still,  for  a  day  or  two,  they  hoped  it  was  nothing 


196  A  CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

very  serious.  On  tins  first  afternoon  of  Ted's  really 
owning  himself  ill,  two  girl  friends  of  Mabel's  came, 
as  had  been  arranged,  to  see  the  famous  museum, 
usually  such  a  pleasure  to  its  owner  to  exhibit.  But 
already  how  different  all  seemed ! 

"Mother,  dear,"  he  said,  as  if  half  reproaching 
himself  for  selfishness,  "it  sometimes  almost  seems 
a  bother  to  have  to  show  my  museum ; "  but  as  it 
was  considered  better  not  to  let  him  yield  to  the 
depression  coming  over  him,  he  bravely  roused  him- 
self and  went  through  the  little  exhibition  with  his 
usual  gentle  courtesy.  But  this  was  the  last  effort 
of  the  kind  possible  for  him. 

Sunday  and  Monday  found  him  weaker,  and  the 
doctor's  kind  face  grew  graver.  Still  he  was  not 
very  ill ;  only  it  began  to  seem  as  if  he  had  not 
strength  to  resist  what  had  not,  at  first,  threatened 
seriously.  And  one  day  he  made  his  mother's  heart 
seem,  for  an  instant,  to  stop  beating,  when,  looking 
up  wistfully,  he  said  to  her, 

"  Mother,  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  get  better." 

And  the  sad  days  and  sadder  nights  went  slowly 
on.  Now  and  then  there  seemed  a  little  sparkle  of 
hope.  Once  Ted  began  to  talk  about  meeting  his 
dear  Percy  at  the  station,  when  he  came  home  for 
the  holidays,  which  made  those  about  him  hope  he 
was  feeling  stronger ;  then,  at  another  time,  he  said 
what  a  pity  it  would  be  not  to  be  well  by  Christmas 
and  by  his  birthday,  and  he  smiled  when  his  father 


THE   WHITE   CROSS.  197 

told  him,  as  was  the  case,  that  the  doctor  quite  hoped 
he  would  be  well  by  then ;  and  one  day  when  the 
post  brought  him  his  great  wish  —  a  beautiful  book 
of  travels  —  his  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure,  and, 
though  not  able  to  read  it,  the  welcome  present  lay 
on  his  bed  where  he  could  see  it  and  smile  to  himself 
to  think  it  was  there.  There  were  happy  times 
through  his  illness,  weak  and  wearied  though  he 
grew,  and  now  and  then  he  seemed  so  bright  that 
it  was  difficult,  for  a  little,  not  to  think  him  much 
better.  But  the  illness  which  Ted  had  is  a  very 
deceitful  one  —  it  invisibly  saps  away  the  strength 
even  when  the  worst  sharp  suffering  is  over  —  and 
slowly,  slowly  it  came  to  be  seen  that  his  own  feeling 
had  been  true ;  our  Ted  was  not  to  get  better. 

One  day  a  travelling  merchant  brought  to  the  door 
a  case  of  pretty  Parian  ornaments.  White  and  pure 
they  shone  in  the  winter  sunshine,  and  some  one  had 
the  thought  that  "  one  of  these  might  please  Ted." 
So  they  were  brought  up  for  him  to  choose  from. 
Poor  Cissy !  she  would  fain  have  carried  them  in ; 
but  alas !  for  fear  of  infection,  she  could  not  be 
allowed  to  see  her  brother,  which  made  of  these  last 
days  a  double  sorrow  to  her,  though  she  did  not  know 
how  ill  he  was.  Ted  touched  the  pretty  things  with 
his  little  thin  hand. 

"  They  are  very  pretty,"  he  said.  "  I  like  this  one 
best,  please,  mother." 

"  This    one "    was   a   snow-white    cross,   and    his 


198  A   CHRISTMAS   CHILD. 

mother's  heart  ached  with  a  strange  thrill  as  she 
saw  his  choice ;  but  she  smiled  as  she  placed  it  be- 
side him,  where  it  stood,  ever  in  his  sight,  till  his 
blue  eyes  could  see  it  no  more. 

There  came  a  morning  on  which  the  winter  sun 
rose  with  a  wonderful  glory ;  gold  and  orange  light 
seemed  to  fill  the  sky,  as  if  in  prelude  to  some  splen- 
did pageant.  It  was  Sunday  morning.  Ted  lay 
asleep,  as  if  carved  in  marble,  his  little  white  face 
rested  on  the  pillow,  and  as  his  mother  turned  from 
the  marvellous  beauty  outside  to  the  small  figure 
that  seemed  to  her,  just  then,  the  one  thing  in  earth 
or  sky,  she  whispered  to  herself  what  she  felt  to  be 
the  truth. 

"  It  is  his  last  Sunday  with  us.  Before  another 
my  Ted  will  have  entered  that  city  where  there  is 
no  need  of  the  sun,  of  which  God  Himself  is  the 
light.  My  happy  Ted!  but  oh,  how  shall  we  live 
without  him  ?  " 

She  was  right.  Ted  did  not  live  to  see  Christmas 
or  his  birthday.  Sweetly  and  peacefully,  trusting 
God  in  death  as  he  had  trusted  Him  in  life,  the  little 
fellow  fearlessly  entered  the  dark  valley  —  the  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  death  only,  for  who  can  doubt  that 
to  such  as  Ted  what  seems  death  is  but  the  entrance 
to  fuller  life  ? 

So,  children,  I  will  not  say  that  this  was  the  end  of 
the  simple  life  I  have  told  you  of  —  and  in  yet  another 
way  Ted  lives  —  in  the  hearts  of  all  that  loved  him 


THE   WHITE   CROSS.  199 

his  sweet  memory  can  never  die.  And  if  I  have  been 
able  to  make  any  among  you  feel  that  you  too  love 
him,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I  shall  be. 

They  laid  him  in  a  pretty  corner  of  the  little 
cemetery  from  which  can  be  seen  the  old  church 
Ted  loved  so  well,  and  the  beautiful  chase,  where  he 
so  often  walked.  And  even  in  those  midwinter  days 
his  little  friend  Gertrude  found  flowers  for  his  grave. 
It  was  all  she  could  do  to  show  her  love  for  him, 
she  said,  crying  bitterly,  for  she  might  not  see  him 
to  bid  him  good-bye,  and  her  heart  was  very  sore. 

So  it  was  with  Christmas  roses  that  the  grave  of 
our  Christmas  child  was  decked. 


THE  END. 


A    NEW    UNIFORM    EDITION 

OF 

MRS.  MOLESWORTH'S 

STORIES    FOR    CHILDREN 

WITH 

ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  WALTER  CRANE  AND  LESLIE  BROOKE, 


In  Ten  Volumes.     i2mo.    Cloth.    One  Dollar  a  Volume. 


Tell  Me  a  Story,  and  Herr  Baby. 
1  "Carrots,"  and  A  Christmas  Child.  — 

«f   Grandmother  Dear,  and  Two  Little  Waifs.  - 
^  The  Cuckoo  Clock,  and  The  Tapestry  Room.  _ 
j-  Christmas-Tree  Land,  and  A  Christmas  Posy. 
The  Children  of  the  Castle,  and  Four  Winds  Farm.  ^ 
7  Little  Miss  Peggy,  and  Nurse  Heatherdale's  Story. . 
/'Us,"  and  The  Rectory  Children. 

r  Rosy,  and  The  Girls  and  I.  - 
//  Mary. 


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"  It  seems  to  me  not  at  all  easier  to  draw  a  lifelike  child  than  to  draw  a  lifelike  man 
or  woman:  Shakespeare  and  Webster  were  the  only  two  men  of  their  age  who  could 
do  it  with  perfect  delicacy  and  success;  at  least,  if  there  was  another  who  could,  I 
must  crave  pardon  of  his  happy  memory  for  my  forgetfulness  or  ignorance  of  his 
name.  Our  own  age  is  more  fortunate,  on  this  single  score  at  least,  having  a  larger 
and  far  nobler  proportion  of  female  writers;  among  whom,  since  the  death  of  George 
Eliot,  there  is  none  left  whose  touch  is  so  exquisite  and  masterly,  whose  love  is  so 
thoroughly  according  to  knowledge,  whose  bright  and  sweet  invention  is  so  fruitful, 
so  truthful,  or  so  delightful  as  Mrs.  Moles  worth's.  Any  chapter  of  The  Cuckoo  Clock 
or  the  enchanting  Adventures  of  Herr  Baby  is  worth  a  shoal  of  the  very  best  novels 
dealing  with  the  characters  and  fortunes  of  mere  adults." —  MRS.  A.  C.  SWINBURNE, 
in  The  Nineteenth  Century. 

MACMILLAN    &    CO., 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW   YORK. 
I 


MRS.  MOLESWORTH'S 
STORIES    FOR   CHILDREN. 


"  There  is  hardly  a  better  author  to  put  into  the  hands  of  children  than  Mrs. 
Molesworth.  I  cannot  easily  speak  too  highly  of  her  work.  It  is  a  curious  art  she 
has,  not  wholly  English  in  its  spirit,  but  a  cross  of  the  old  English  with  the  Italian. 
Indeed,  I  should  say  Mrs.  Molesworth  had  also  been  a  close  student  of  the  German 
and  Russian,  and  had  some  way,  catching  and  holding  the  spirit  of  all,  created  a 
method  and  tone  quite  her  own.  .  .  .  Her  characters  are  admirable  and  real." —  5/. 
Louis  Globe  Democrat. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  has  a  rare  gift  for  composing  stories  for  children.  With  a 
light,  yet  forcible  touch,  she  paints  sweet  and  artless,  yet  natural  and  strong,  charac- 
ters." —  Congregationalist. 

"Mrs.  Molesworth  always  has  in  her  books  those  charming  touches  of  nature 
that  are  sure  to  charm  small  people.  Her  stories  are  so  likely  to  have  been  true  that 
men  'grown  up'  do  not  disdain  them."  —  Home.  Journal. 

"  No  English  writer  of  childish  stories  has  a  better  reputation  than  Mrs.  Moles- 
worth,  and  none  with  whose  stories  we  are  familiar  deserves  it  better.  She  has  a 
motherly  knowledge  of  the  child  nature,  a  clear  sense  of  character,  the  power  of 
inventing  simple  incidents  that  interest,  and  the  ease  which  comes  of  continuous 
practice."  —  Mail  and  Express. 

"  Christmas  would  hardly  be  Christmas  without  one  of  Mrs.  Molesworth's  stories. 
No  one  has  quite  the  same  power  of  throwing  a  charm  and  an  interest  about  the 
most  commonplace  every-day  doings  as  she  has,  and  no  one  has  ever  blended  fairy- 
land and  reality  with  the  same  skill."  —  Educational  Times. 

"Mrs.  Molesworth  is  justly  a  great  favorite  with  children;  her  stories  for  them 
are  always  charmingly  interesting  and  healthful  in  tone."  —  Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth's  books  are  cheery,  wholesome,  and  particularly  well  adapted  to 
refined  life.  It  is  safe  to  add  that  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  the  best  English  prose  writer 
for  children.  .  .  .  Anew  volume  from  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  always  a  treat." — The 
Beacon. 

"  No  holiday  season  would  be  complete  for  a  host  of  young  readers  without  a  volume 
from  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Molesworth.  ...  It  is  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  Mrs. 
Molesworth's  stories  that  older  readers  can  no  more  escape  their  charm  than  younger 
ones." — Christian  Union. 

.     "  Mrs.  Molesworth  ranks  with  George  Macdonald  and  Mrs.  Ewing  as  a  writer  of 
children's  stories  that  possess  real  literary  merit."  —  Milwaukee  Sentinel. 


THE  SET,  TEN  VOLUMES,    IN  BOX,   $10.00. 


MACMILLAN    &    CO., 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW   YORK. 
2 


TELL  ME   A   STORY,    and   HERR   BABY. 

"  So  delightful  that  we  are  inclined  to  join  in  the  petition,  and  we  hope  she  may 
soon  tell  us  more  stories."  —  Atheneeum. 


"  CARROTS  ";   Just  a  Little  Boy. 

"  One  of  the  cleverest  and  most  pleasing  stories  it  has  been  our  good  fortune  to 
meet  with  for  some  time.  Carrots  and  his  sister  are  delightful  little  beings,  whom  to 
read  about  is  at  once  to  become  very  fond  of."  —  Examiner. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHILD ;  A  Sketch  of  a  Boy's  Life. 

"  A  very  sweet  and  tenderly  drawn  sketch,  with  life  and  reality  manifest  through- 
out." —  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  This  is  a  capital  story,  well  illustrated.  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  one  of  those  sunny, 
genial  writers  who  has  genius  for  writing  acceptably  for  the  young.  She  has  the 
happy  faculty  of  blending  enough  real  with  romance  to  make  her  stories  very  practi- 
cal for  good  without  robbing  them  of  any  of  their  exciting  interest."  —  Chicago  Inter- 
Ocean. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth's  A  Christmas  Child  is  a  story  of  a  boy-life.  The  book  is  a 
small  one,  but  none  the  less  attractive.  It  is  one  of  the  best  of  this  year's  juveniles." 

—  Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  one  of  the  few  writers  of  tales  for  children  whose  sentiment 
though  of  the  sweetest  kind  is  never  sickly  ;  whose  religious  feeling  is  never  concealed 
yet  never  obtruded  ;  whose  books  are  always  good  but  never  '  goody.'  Little  Ted 
with  his  soft  heart,  clever  head,  and  brave  spirit  is  no  morbid  presentment  of  the 
angelic  child  '  too  good  to  live,'  and  who  is  certainly  a  nuisance  on  earth,  but  a 
charming  creature,  if  not  a  portrait,  whom  it  is  a  privilege  to  meet  even  in  fiction." 

—  The  Academy. 


MACMILLAN    &    CO., 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW   YORK. 
3 


THE   CUCKOO   CLOCK. 

"  A  beautiful  little  story.  ...     It  will  be  read  with  delight  by  every  child  into 
whose  hands  it  is  placed."  —  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


GRANDMOTHER   DEAR. 

"  The  author's  concern  is  with  the  development  of  character,  and  seldom  does  one 
meet  with  the  wisdom,  tact,  and  good  breeding  which  pervades  this  little  book."  — 
Nation, 


TWO   LITTLE   WAIFS. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth's  delightful  story  of  Two  Little  Waifs  will  charm  all  the  small 
people  who  find  it  in  their  stockings.  It  relates  the  adventures  of  two  lovable  Eng- 
lish children  lost  in  Paris,  and  is  just  wonderful  enough  to  pleasantly  wring  the  youth- 
ful heart."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

"  It  is,  in  its  way,  indeed,  a  little  classic,  of  which  the  real  beauty  and  pathos  can 
hardly  be  appreciated  by  young  people.  ...  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  of  the  story 
that  it  is  perfect  of  its  kind."  —  Critic  and  Good  Literature. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  such  a  bright,  cheery  writer,  that  her  stories  are  always 
acceptable  to  all  who  are  not  confirmed  cynics,  and  her  record  of  the  adventures  of 
the  little  waifs  is  as  entertaining  and  enjoyable  as  we  might  expect."  —  Boston 
Courier. 

"  Two  Little  Waifs  by  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  a  pretty  little  fancy,  relating  the  adven- 
tures of  a  pair  of  lost  children,  in  a  style  full  of  simple  charm.  It  is  among  the  very 
daintiest  of  juvenile  books  that  the  season  has  yet  called  forth  ;  and  its  pathos  and 
humor  are  equally  delightful.  The  refined  tone  and  the  tender  sympathy  with  the 
feelings  and  sentiments  of  childhood,  lend  it  a  special  and  an  abiding  charm."  —  Bos- 
ton Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  This  is  a  charming  little  juvenile  story  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Molesworth, 
detailing  the  various  adventures  of  a  couple  of  motherless  children  in  searching  for 
their  father,  whom  they  had  missed  in  Paris  where  they  had  gone  to  meet  him."  — 
Montreal  Star. 

"  Mrs.  Molesworth  is  a  popular  name,  not  only  with  a  host  of  English,  but  with  a 
considerable  army  of  young  American  readers,  who  have  been  charmed  by  her  deli- 
cate fancy  and  won  by  the  interest  of  her  style.  Two  Little  Waifs,  illustrated  by 
Walter  Crane,  is  a  delightful  story,  which  comes,  as  all  children's  stories  ought  to  do, 
to  a  delightful  end."  —  Christian  Union. 


MACMILLAN   &    CO., 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW   YORK. 
4 


14  DAY  USE 

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